Forgotten
by NorthernSparrow
Summary: Sam and Dean are working a case in Wyoming, but are distracted by news of a dangerous angel called "Castiel" who they can't remember ever having heard of before. The name seems a little bit familiar, but neither of the boys is sure why. Canon-compliant up to 9/09 (midseason break), takes place the following fall. Case fic, no slash, strong emphasis on friendship/family.
1. A Dream Of The Lost

_Author's Note - __I started this after 9/06 (convenience store episode), but the show is actually tracking pretty well with it, so this fic is now officially based off of 9/09 (midseason break). It takes place several months later, the following September_._ Crowley is still in the basement, poor Kevin is gone, Gadreel was kicked out of Sam months ago; canon-compliant, no slash, strong friendship themes throughout. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

"Sam, you ever heard of that name Crowley mentioned? 'Castiel'? " said Dean. "Crowley seemed to think it was so goddam hilarious we didn't recognize the name."

Dean was sitting on an ancient green vinyl chair in their room at the Teton Pass Motel, staring out the motel window at the pine trees outside. He'd been sitting there for some ten minutes, ever since they'd checked in, while Sam had brought in his notes and laptop from the Impala. The sun had sunk below the mountains some time ago, and the pines around the motel were barely visible now against the twilight sky, but Dean was still just gazing out the window.

Sam looked up from the map of Wyoming that he was spreading out on the rickety linoleum table. "Crowley might have just been messing with us."

"He's definitely messing with us. He's always messing with us," agreed Dean. He sighed, finally turning away from the window and getting up from the chair. "Thing is, it just sounded kind of familiar."

They'd just pulled into the tiny mountain town of Wilson, Wyoming, after a long day's drive across Nebraska. In theory they were here investigating a case - three hikers had been found dead in nearby Grand Teton National Park, with their eyes missing. But Sam and Dean had had a rather distracting conversation with Crowley the evening before. They'd gone down to Crowley's cell to try to get a few more demon names out of him before their road trip, and partway through the interrogation, Crowley had lost his temper and snapped "Why don't you just go ask Castiel? He probably knows more demons than I do at this point."

When neither Sam nor Dean recognized the name, Crowley had at first looked baffled. And then he'd burst into laughter. He'd laughed so hard he'd had to gasp for breath; he'd laughed so hard tears streamed from his eyes. Once he'd finally calmed down he'd said, suddenly cold and grim, "So, if you really don't know who Castiel is, I'll tell you. Castiel is a mass murderer and a doublecrossing bastard, and he's nearly got you both killed a dozen times at least, and that is the honest truth. So. Free piece of advice for you, boys. You really ought to find and kill that murderous son of a bitch, before he kills you first."

He'd shut up after that and had refused to say another word. Sam and Dean had eventually just left him chained in his dark cell, and had started packing for the Wyoming trip. They'd left early the next morning.

A long twelve-hour drive later, here they were in Wyoming - but unable to focus on the case.

Dean was walking across the motel room now, pacing slowly from the little linoleum table toward the bison mural that took up the entire back wall of the room. Sam watched him, frowning. It was never a good sign when Dean started pacing.

"Didn't realize you were thinking about that Crowley thing," said Sam. "You were pretty quiet on the drive here."

"Eh, you were asleep most of the time anyway," said Dean. "And what's there to talk about." He had reached the back wall of the room and was staring vacantly at the life-size painted bison, apparently not even noticing it was there. Finally he turned to look directly at Sam for the first time all day. "Ok, Sam, to be honest, that name, Castiel, it's kind of bugging me. Haven't we heard that name before? Somewhere?"

Sam eyed Dean for a moment, and then pushed the Wyoming map aside, pulled out his laptop, and flipped it open. He looked back at Dean a bit sheepishly. "It was bugging me too, actually. So last night after we left Crowley, I spent a little time in the library."

"Looking for that name?" Dean guessed.

"Looking for that name."

"Oh - and let me guess, by 'a little time in library' you mean you were up half the night, don't you. That's why you conked out in the car today?"

Sam looked embarrassed. "Yeah."

"And?"

"And I found it. It took a while, but I found it. Castiel." Sam glanced down at the laptop and tapped a few keys, opening up several images of old documents. "And guess where I found it: in some of the oldest sources. Some of the Apocrypha. Some of the Dead Sea Scrolls, even. And some stuff even further back."

"Which means what exactly?"

"Dean, those sources are from back when there were angels on Earth. Turns out 'Castiel' is the name of an angel."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Of course it'd be an angel. I should've guessed. Anything bad these days always turns out to be an angel."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, and, unfortunately this one's especially bad." He glanced down at the images on the screen. "Seems like this Castiel was pretty badass in the old days. One of the really powerful angels. Check out some of these illustrations." He turned the laptop toward Dean and pointed to a dramatic gilded illustration from an old illuminated manuscript. Dean leaned closer to look.

It was a beautiful illustration, painstakingly detailed. An angel was shown hovering in a whirling wind. Massive wings were spread behind him, every feather perfect and gleaming, and a great cloud of silver sparks was showering down around him. In one hand the angel was brandishing a silver sword, and from the other hand a tremendous beam of silver light was shooting down to the ground below. His eyes were gleaming eerily with silver light, the expression on his face cold and fierce. The sparks, sword and the angel's eyes had been coated in fine hammered silver leaf so that the whole angel seemed to be glittering.

Below him, people were cowering in terror on the ground as the silver sword and the great ray of light descended toward them. They were covering their ears, they were screaming, and flames were shooting from their eyes. Tiny dark demons were scuttling toward the sides, their bodies bursting into flame. On the horizon an entire town was burning.

An ornate inscription below the image said "CASTIEL".

"Oh, _he_ looks friendly," said Dean.

"Yeah. Real old-school type. Brought visions, smote the wicked, drove out demons. Purified cities, and you know what that means. Full on soldier-of-God type stuff, thunder and lightning, the works. Basically a hell of a scary guy."

"Archangel?" asked Dean.

"No, not an archangel, as far as I could tell. A couple sources say he's a seraph, not that it's ever been clear what that means exactly. Pretty high up, though, that's clear. One of the commanders or something. Though it seems like he hasn't been down here in a couple thousand years - all the lore on him is really ancient. But, Dean, here's the thing: he fell from Heaven recently."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You mean, last year? All the angels fell last year."

"No, before that," said Sam. "About four years ago, I think. I called around, late last night, and got some intel from a couple other hunters. Some of them have heard angels talking, and what they heard is that this Castiel went into full-on Lucifer mode right around the time of the Apocalypse. Totally rebelled, got cast out of Heaven. Nobody seems to be sure if he was working with Lucifer or what. And then, after the Apocalypse, he actually tried to take over as God and killed a ton of people. Even killed a ton of _angels_."

Dean whistled. "Ambitious. That takes some major mojo."

"Yup. This guy plays big. And then, get this." Sam looked up at Dean, very serious. "He's apparently the one who cast the angels out of Heaven."

Dean pulled one of the green vinyl chairs closer, and sat down next to Sam. He looked again at the glittering angel in the ancient illustration, and the people cowering below.

"Why haven't we heard about him?" asked Dean.

"Well, maybe that's why Crowley was so amused. Seems like Castiel's a major player that we've just missed entirely. But, Dean, it's not like our memories from then are really all that reliable, you know?" Sam's mouth twisted ruefully.

Dean was silent. They'd both been disturbed recently to discover that there were a lot of puzzling gaps in their memories of the last several years. Neither could seem to remember the details of some key events - like how they'd each gotten out of Hell, or how exactly Sam had gotten rid of the Lucifer-ghost that had been driving him mad. Comparing notes, they'd then realized there were several other times that they seemed to remember differently. Sam, for example, was positive it was Dean who'd tossed the holy fire at Michael, while Dean was sure it had been Bobby. And since nobody else had been there, they had been unable to figure out whose memory was right.

There were a lot of pieces missing. And they didn't know why.

"Anyway," went on Sam, "If we can believe Crowley - "

"Which we probably can't," said Dean.

" - which we probably can't, this Castiel's a bad one and we may have to kill him. "

Dean pushed the laptop back toward Sam, and said tiredly, "Why can't we ever catch a friggin' break? Now we've got to take out some kind of badass new Lucifer? Wasn't the old Lucifer enough?"

Sam grimaced and shrugged. They both stared at the picture of the angel Castiel for a few moments. Sam went on, "So... I was thinking I'd take a little time tonight to read through a bit more of the angel-lore I brought. Maybe try to learn a bit more about seraphs, or something. See if there's any more info at all about this guy."

Dean nodded. "You want some help? I could do a bit of the reading. "

Sam looked sharply at Dean, eyebrows raised. He said with a little laugh, "You feeling ok?"

Dean glared at him. "Hey, no fair. I've done plenty of research. You know, um... sometimes."

"When you're at gunpoint," Sam said, snorting. He looked at Dean a moment longer, and gave him a little smile. "This must really be bugging you if you're volunteering for research. But never mind, I got it covered. And, Dean, truth is, you looked like crap this morning and you still kind of look like crap. And you've been looking like crap for a while now. Maybe you should get some sleep."

"I'm fine," said Dean automatically. And then he stifled a yawn. Sam snickered.

"All right, all right," said Dean, rolling his eyes. "Nap time then. Happy? Want to tuck me in?"

Sam snorted again, said, "Just don't snore too loud, dude," and returned to the laptop. Dean kicked off his shoes and lay back on one of the beds, staring at the cracked plaster of the ceiling.

"Castiel," he heard Sam mutter softly, as he typed the name into a search engine.

Dean frowned. The name was definitely kind of strange. He felt virtually certain he'd heard it somewhere before. But where? Maybe he'd heard the name back before their memories had gone all fuzzy...

He was just too tired to pursue the thought, for sleep seemed to be dragging him down almost the moment he closed his eyes. He'd just been feeling just so very tired recently.

He turned onto his side, flung an arm over his eyes and dropped instantly into sleep.

* * *

The dream unfolded as it always did. Dean was walking through long corridors in a huge dark house, alone. He was looking for something. It was something very important, something that he had lost, something that he absolutely needed to find.

Dean was not clear on exactly what it was, but he felt sure that if he searched long enough, he would find it.

He had his trusty shotgun in one hand, and he was wearing his favorite old leather jacket, the one that he'd somehow lost last year. He patted the pockets; he could feel his .45 securely in place in his underarm holster, two extra magazines in the inside pocket, extra shotgun shells in one front pocket, and a heavy box of salt jammed into the other front pocket. Plus, the demon-blade was tucked in a sheath on his belt. That ought to be plenty; it really ought to. Yet Dean could not shake a nagging feeling that he was not prepared. He patted the .45 again for reassurance, tried to put the worries aside, and began to check the house. Surely he would soon find...whatever it was.

He began on the first floor, and went from room to room methodically, walking through several huge dark rooms that seemed full of overstuffed furniture and cluttered with little sculptures and knick-knacks. He checked carefully around each piece of furniture, the shotgun at the ready. He looked in every corner; he checked every closet. But nobody was there. In fact, it looked like nobody had been in the house in years. All the rooms were silent and dark, lit only by the moonlight streaming silently in the windows. All the furniture and knick-knacks were coated with a thick layer of dust, all paintings on the walls obscured with dark grime. The cupboards in the kitchens were empty, their doors hanging open.

The place was deserted, and the only sound was the creaking of the floorboards under Dean's feet.

And no matter how much he searched, he could not find the whatever-it-was that he was looking for.

Dean felt sure he must have missed something. He began all over, starting in the front room again. This room had a huge fireplace, with a large painting mounted in a tarnished silver frame above the mantel. The painting seemed to be of an angel that was hovering above a crowd of people, and it looked a little bit familiar. But it was so coated with grime from the fireplace that the angel was virtually unrecognizable, its wings and face completely obscured.

Dean frowned, stepping closer to try to get a clearer look. He noticed a little marble statuette of an angel on the mantel just below the painting, and he touched it gently. It was much unsteadier than it looked, and when he touched it, it immediately tipped over and fell to the flagstone hearth with an echoing crash.

"Dammit," whispered Dean to himself, flinching at the noise. He listened carefully as the echoes faded, but the house was silent and still as always.

He crouched to pick up the little angel, and found that both its wings had broken off. This seemed a pity, and Dean spent a few pointless moments seeing if he could fit the pieces of the broken wings back onto the angel, before he realized he didn't have any glue. There was no way to fix it. He sighed and stood to put the statuette back on the mantel. But it wouldn't stand straight and kept threatening to tip over again, so he finally put it down on the hearth again, next to the fragments of its broken wings.

"Sorry," he whispered to the little angel.

He walked on to the next room, feeling peculiarly bothered by the fact that he'd had to leave the little broken angel alone on the floor.

Then he heard a distant growl.

"Ah, tonight it's going to be hellhounds," muttered Dean aloud. "Great." He was dimly aware now that he'd been here before, and that sometimes there were other things in the house - ghosts, vampires, demons. But tonight it was hellhounds. He listened carefully, trying to figure out where the growl was coming from. He tiptoed back out into the wide central hallway, where there stood a broad staircase that led up to the second floor.

Again he heard that low rumbling growl. Now he could hear it was coming from a room across the hallway.

And from another direction entirely, from the back of the house, he heard the ticking of claws on the tiled floor in the kitchen.

Two hellhounds, then.

Dean exhaled slowly, trying to stay calm.

He hated hellhounds with a passion, and he especially hated facing them alone. He always had to fight down a rise of panic whenever he heard that distinctive growl.

Then he heard a third growl, coming from near the front door. Three. Three hellhounds that had him surrounded. "Damn, damn, damn," muttered Dean, hefting his shotgun. He tiptoed rapidly to the base of the staircase. Shafts of moonlight were shining through a small stained-glass window in the stairwell, dimly illuminating the carpeted wooden steps, and Dean darted up the stairs as quietly as he could. At the top, in the second floor hallway, he checked his shotgun, and was shocked to find that it was unloaded. He pulled out the .45, and discovered it was unloaded too. Dean rummaged through his pockets, pulling out the shotgun shells and the magazines for the .45, and stared at them in disbelief: the shells were just empty casings, and the two magazines were empty. Heart sinking, Dean pulled out the box of salt. It had felt heavy earlier, bumping against his side as he'd walked through the first-floor rooms, but now it felt far too light. He shook it upsidedown, and just a few tiny grains of salt trickled out.

Dean muttered "Crap," dropped the empty salt box and the useless guns, and pulled out the demon-knife from its sheath on this belt. This was the best weapon for hellhounds anyway.

But the demon-knife felt strange in his hand. He looked down at it, puzzled, and saw it was beginning to rust rapidly. In moments it was completely covered with rust, and then it flaked to dust in his hands.

The growls were closer. The hellhounds were coming up the stairs. Dean's mouth went dry. He shook the rust flakes from his hand and began backing down the hallway.

They began to bark.

Dean turned and sprinted down the long hallway. The hellhounds had really caught his scent now. He couldn't see them, of course, but he could _hear_ them: that deafening thunderous barking and growling, and the heavy paws galloping up the stairs and pounding down the hallway after him. Dean bolted into a large room at the end of the hallway, heart pounding. He slammed the door shut, shoved a heavy wooden bureau in front of the door, and backed away, breathing hard, staring at the door.

The hellhounds slammed into the door with a earsplitting thunder of throaty barks. The doorframe shattered immediately and the door began to edge open, the bureau shuddering and scraping slowly across the floor. Dean threw his full body weight against the bureau, trying to hold it in place to keep the door closed. But ragged gaps began appearing in the shaking door, as the hellhounds began to shred their way directly through the upper panels of the door.

"Sam?" Dean yelled, his voice shaky. "Anybody?"

But Sam wasn't there. Nobody answered.

Dean watched helplessly as the door began to fail. He looked around, searching for some kind of weapon, and realized there was absolutely nothing in the room. The room seemed freakishly empty, completely devoid of furniture other than the single bureau that he'd shoved in front of the door. There was nothing useful anywhere - no handy iron poker, nothing he could use as a club, not even a chair he could throw. Nothing. He was alone, he was unarmed, and he was trapped.

And he was frightened.

The bureau began to topple over, and Dean had to step back. The door shattered, bursting open in a spray of splinters. Dean whispered aloud, "Help me. Please. "

Even as he said the words, he knew that he'd said them before. This was a dream, and he'd been here before, and this was where the dream always ended up: with Dean desperate, alone, and praying aloud for help.

Time suddenly wound down. The wood splinters that had been whipping through the air slowed and then stopped entirely, frozen in mid-air. The falling bureau seemed suspended in midair too. Then the walls receded, accelerating away, the door shrinking into the far distance and vanishing in a distant gloom. The hellhounds' growls faded away. The edges of the room faded to black, till it seemed that Dean was standing alone in a soft spotlight, in absolute silence, with the edges of the room shrouded in darkness.

It was so quiet he could hear his own heart beating.

Abruptly Dean knew there was something just behind him. Something that had been there all along.

Dean said hoarsely, "I'm dreaming. It's that dream again." He knew what would happen next. If he turned too fast and tried to look directly at whatever was behind him, there would be nothing there.

So instead he turned very, very slowly. He turned just his head, until he could just catch a glimpse of the whatever-it-was in his peripheral vision, taking care not to look directly at it.

It was a man. There was a man standing a few feet behind him, standing silent in the gloom at the edge of the room. Dean inched his head a bit further around, hardly daring to breathe. As always, he could only make out a few details. A tan coat of some kind. _Oh yeah, there's always that coat_, thought Dean wildly. Black shoes. A hand, hanging quietly by the man's side.

The man was still as a statue. He seemed to be looking toward Dean, but his face was completely obscured in shadow. Dean could not resist trying to get a clearer look, and he turned all the way around. That did it; the dream evaporated, and Dean woke with a gasp on the motel bed.

Sam was looking at him. "Dean, you ok?"

"Yeah, yeah. Fine."

Dean drew a shaky breath.

Sam was still staring at him.

"What." Dean said flatly, sitting up and rubbing his face. He was embarrassed to find that his eyes had somehow teared up. He turned away from Sam, trying to wipe his eyes discreetly, and then stood and went to the sink to splash water on his face.

Sam watched as Dean splashed his face a few times and then grabbed a hand-towel. The towel made a _whuff_ sound as Dean pulled it off the towel-rack, and Dean jerked in surprise and peered at the mirror closely. There was nothing there. He looked behind him, gazed around the room in obvious confusion, and looked in the mirror again.

"You sure you're all right?" said Sam.

"Sure," said Dean sharply, blotting his face dry. "I'm fine. You get your reading done? Find anything?"

Sam didn't answer. Dean cleared his throat, went to the minifridge in the room's tiny kitchenette, and pulled out two beers. Wordlessly he handed one to Sam, and then sat back down on the bed and twisted the cap off of his.

"What's the dream about?" Sam said eventually.

"What dream?" Dean asked, taking a swig of beer.

Sam sighed. "Dean, every single time we've been at a motel recently, you've been exhausted and you've fallen asleep early and then you're flailing around on the bed and then you jerk awake. And then you don't get back to sleep and you're exhausted the next day, and pretty cranky too, just by the way. And it happens every time we share a room at a motel, so I'm betting it happens every night at the bunker too. You're having nightmares, aren't you?"

Dean glowered at him.

"And also, you're talking in your sleep."

Dean looked a bit worried at that. "Uh... what was I saying?"

Sam smiled faintly, and said, "You always say something like, Please help me."

Dean was unable to meet Sam's eyes. He took another swig of beer and grumbled, "Can't a guy just have a nightmare in peace for once? Without getting grilled about it?"

"I just wanted to check and see what was up. If we're going to work this case, I need to know if you're on your game."

"I'm fine. It's nothing," said Dean gruffly. "Just a stupid dream. Just, you know, basic hunter dream, being chased, you know, the usual."

Sam was still looking at him.

"There's always this guy in a coat behind me," added Dean. The second the words came out of his mouth he grimaced, annoyed at himself for having said anything. He took another swallow of his beer.

"Guy in a coat?" said Sam slowly, frowning.

Dean sighed. "Guy in a tan coat. Like a raincoat or something. Just sort of hovering around behind me. Look, it's not even a bad dream, it's just the same dream over and over. Something's chasing me, but then it stops, and there's some guy in a coat standing behind me, and I can't get a clear look at him. No big deal."

Sam was staring intently at Dean now.

"Quit looking at me like that," snapped Dean. "I'm _fine_. It's not even a bad dream."

"Dean..."

"It's not even scary really, I'm just tired of having the same dream over and over."

"Dean."

"I'm fine. Really. Fine."

"Dean, I've had the same dream."

They stared at each other.

Sam amended, "Well, slightly different. In mine he's not standing behind me. He's usually a long way away and he's always walking away. And I've only had the dream a couple times. But, same kind of thing, the dream's about something else entirely, and then the dream sort of stops and there's this guy in a coat. Walking away. I keep asking him who he is and he never answers. It's not a bad dream, it's just..." He trailed off.

"Spooky?" suggested Dean.

"Spooky."

* * *

Outside the motel, the stars had come out. There were almost no streetlights here, and few houses; there were just the black hulking hills of the Tetons pressed close around, the dark shapes of the pines around the motel, and the bright starry sky overhead. The winding road that headed past the motel and up to the mountain pass was very quiet at this time of night.

Yet there was one man standing at the edge of the road, just outside the glow of the motel's single streetlight. He was looking at the motel. Or, to be more precise, he was looking at the Impala.

He was thin, and he looked tired, and he was not dressed well for an autumn in the mountains. He did have a jacket, at least, a well-worn leather jacket. But it didn't fit well; it was a little too big, the sleeves slightly too long. He had no hat or gloves, he had only thin jeans and cheap shoes, and he was shivering, clutching the jacket tightly around him.

Despite the shivering, he stood there for many long minutes, just looking at the Impala, and at the brightly lit window of the motel room just behind it.

At last he shook his head, as if reaching a decision. A brisk wind had sprung up, chilly mountain air pouring over the pass. He clutched the jacket tighter as he turned and left the motel. He began to trudge up the winding mountain road, his head down against the icy wind, and soon he disappeared into the darkness.

* * *

_A/N - If you enjoyed or have comments (positive or negative), please review! I really love to get feedback on what worked and what didn't. Or, just say hi. :)_


	2. How Bright An Angel

The next day dawned clear and sunny, with a crisp bite in the fall air. Sam wanted to get a map of the national park before breakfast, so they swung by the nearby town of Moose, Wyoming.

"Of course you'd want to go to a town named Moose," said Dean, grinning, as they clambered into the car.

Sam was not amused. "Just drive, Dean."

Moose was just inside the national park boundary, and turned out to consist of exactly three buildings: the park service headquarters, a grocery store that seemed crowded with backpackers buying chocolate bars, and a restaurant in the shape of a gigantic teepee. Dean was thrilled with the teepee restaurant and, after they'd picked up the map, he insisted that they had to eat there.

But once they got their table, he was yawning before they'd even placed their order.

"How'd you sleep?" asked Sam. "After that restful nap, I mean."

"Great," said Dean brightly. "Got to sleep just fine in the end. Only took four of those little bottles of Jack Daniels from the minibar."

Sam gave him an exasperated look, and Dean said, "Relax. Kidding. I'm fine, I swear."

"Any more funny dreams? Did the guy in the coat come back?"

"No, no," said Dean quickly, looking down at his coffee. "Nope. So hey, did you find anything more about that Castiel?"

Sam looked at him for a second. He said, "You do realize that if we're both having the same dream, it's probably kind of important. Like, probably we should pay attention to it."

Dean took a gulp of coffee, evading Sam's gaze. "Well, there's just not much to go on. And maybe it's not even the same dream - you said yours was different."

"But it's the same guy."

"We don't know that. All we know is we've both dreamed about a guy in a coat. That's pretty vague. Could just be coincidence."

"You don't really believe that." Sam studied Dean's face. The food had arrived, and Dean picked up a piece of toast and determinedly started buttering it. He still wouldn't look at Sam.

Sam persisted, "What else was in the dream?"

"Look, Sam," said Dean sharply, banging the knife down, "I don't want to talk about the damn dream, all right?"

"Why not?"

"_Dammit_, Sam. Because every time I think about it I just want to - " Dean stopped abruptly. He looked away, out a little oval-shaped window in the side of the teepee, and rubbed his eyes. "I always wake up feeling like I screwed up. Like I did something wrong, I lost something, I messed up. And I just feel like crap but I can never figure out why and there is no point talking about it because there's nothing we can do about it and I've been having this stupid dream for _months _every damn night and nothing ever changes, and I'm just _sick_ of it. So drop it. I'm serious."

Dean took a huge bite of the toast and flagged the waitress down for more coffee.

Then he looked back at Sam with an artificially bright smile. "So how about that Castiel guy? Find out anything more?"

Sam carefully looked down, and took a sip of his coffee in silence. After a moment, he said, "Not really anything useful. Just more scary stories. And unfortunately no real weaknesses. Most of the old lore is really just about how powerful he is. He's one of the ones who could bend time and heal people - all kinds of high-end talent like that. Dean..." Sam sighed. "We can't go up against an angel like that. We don't even have any reliable way to kill them."

"Angel-blade." said Dean. "Angel-blades kill them just fine."

"Yeah, but only if you can get close enough. And only if you take them by surprise. And only if the angel doesn't just fling you clear across the room and break your neck first," said Sam. Thinking a bit, he added, "Or burn out your eyes. Or stop your heart. Or squish you into a wall. Or -"

Dean interrupted. "Got it. Okay. Even with an angel-blade it ain't easy, I'll agree with that."

"And also," said Sam, "I'm not totally convinced we should assume this Castiel is a bad guy."

"Dude, you just spent two nights compiling his rap sheet." said Dean. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you say he had a pretty damn high body count?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, but - "

"Fell from Heaven way before any of the other angels did, possibly allied with Lucifer, killed lots of people?"

"Yeah - "

"We've ganked monsters for less. Sam, you keep thinking some angels might actually be good guys. We know better now. _Way_ better. They're pit bulls. Pit bulls that God at least used to have on a leash, but now they've slipped the leash entirely." Dean waved around a forkful of scrambled eggs for emphasis. "We're just ants to them, Sam. Ants that they step on. When they notice us at all they're like a kid with a magnifying glass, burning us up just for fun." said Dean. He looked at the forkful of eggs as if he'd forgotten it was in his hand, and swallowed the eggs in a determined gulp. "Besides, Crowley said we'd probably need to kill him."

Sam said, "We shouldn't be trying to kill the guy just based on Crowley's say-so."

"Why not?"

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Seriously? Crowley's triple- and quadruple- and quintuple-crossed us I don't know how many times."

"You said the angels said he was a bad one, too."

"And since when do you trust what angels say?"

Dean thought about that, and nodded reluctantly. "Okay. Fair point."

"We just don't have good information from anybody that we trust. Also. Dean. I _do _think there might be some angels who might not be all that bad. Don't you ever get that feeling? Just, you know, that there's maybe one good angel somewhere? Just one?"

Dean set down his fork and looked out the little window again.

They sat quietly for a while, Dean staring out of the window.

Dean's eyes suddenly focused on something, and he said slowly, "Check it out, Sam."

Sam turned to look out the window, which offered a view of part of the parking lot. The Impala was just visible in a small line of cars on the far side of the lot. And there was a man looking into the windows of the Impala.

He was facing away from Sam and Dean, so they could only make out a few vague details. Medium height. Black hair. Wearing a leather jacket.

Sam and Dean watched the man carefully. He seemed to be inspecting the interior of the car, peering carefully into both the front and rear windows. After a few moments, he stepped back, tilted his head a bit and gazed at the car a bit longer. They still couldn't see his face.

Finally he walked past the car and headed out to the main road, where there was a small bus stop.

"Probably he just likes the Impala?" said Dean. "I mean, anybody would, right?"

"Yeah. Maybe," said Sam. "But... Did he look familiar at all to you?"

Dean snorted. "Sam, we never saw his face."

"But, just the same. The way he's walking or something," said Sam, frowning.

They both were leaning over to the little window now, craning their heads to watch the man. He was still walking farther away, toward the main road.

Sam had started to say "It's just like in my dr-" when Dean interrupted with, "The jacket. It's the jacket. I used to have a jacket just like that, remember?"

Sam said, "Oh. Yeah. That must be it." The distant little figure had paused at the bus stop. "Whatever happened to that jacket? You used to wear it all the time."

"I don't know. I must have just lost it or something. I haven't seen it in months. Bummed me out," said Dean, still watching the man. "I really liked that jacket."

They both continued watching till a park bus trundled by, picked up the man, and moved on.

"I miss that jacket," said Dean.

Sam shook his head as if to clear it. "Well, anyway. We better get to the case." He pulled a folder out of his pack and set it on the table, flipping it open till he got to some printouts of news articles. Dean was still staring out the window, and Sam had to snap his fingers in front of Dean's face to get his attention. Dean jumped, and then guiltily turned his attention to the folder.

"So, just to sum up what we know," Sam began, "three hikers have been found dead over the last three months. One a month. The first was back in July, the second in August, and here we are in September and another was just found a couple days ago. A twenty-three year old girl. All were hiking alone, and they were all found in the same area of the park lying on, or near, one of the hiking trails. Torn up pretty badly, with their eyes gone."

"Cause of death?"

"The park rangers think maybe bear attacks, so that's been getting a lot of press. I guess bears are a thing around here. Except, the victims' eyes were missing, just the eyes, and apparently bears don't pluck out eyes, so, there's that. Instead everyone's assuming ravens pecked out their eyes after they were dead. But there's one article that mentions that the eyes were _burned_. See," said Sam, pointing out a paragraph in one of the news articles.

Dean took the article and skimmed the paragraph quickly. "That does sound like angels," he said, looking at the picture of the victim, a cheerful-looking young brunette. "Where in the park were they found?"

"You're going to love this."

Dean looked at him.

"A place called Death Canyon. It's right near here. All three hikers were found on trails that went through Death Canyon. Different trails, but all in the same canyon."

"Please tell me that's a made-up name."

Sam laughed. "Real deal, unfortunately. So I thought we should head out there."

"Oh, you are friggin' kidding me."

"We don't have to go very far into the canyon, and there's an access road that goes part of the way. There's a big old meadow back there with some old ranch buildings from the 1800's, from back before the park was a park. Nobody lives there anymore and the park service boarded all the buildings up years ago."

"You're thinking that might be a good place for angels to hide out?"

"Maybe. Thought we should go check it out."

"Can't we just go to the morgue or something? A morgue sounds a lot more pleasant than walking into a potential angel blast zone."

"The morgue too. We'll hit that first and then swing by Death Canyon. Just take a quick look."

"Death Canyon. Friggin' _angels_, man." said Dean.

* * *

After a few delicate inquiries at the police station, they found that the girl's body was still at the morgue at a nearby hospital in Jackson. Dean was determined to try out some National Park Service badges that he'd had made years ago and had never had an opportunity to use, so he dug them out of the depths of the Impala's trunk. A few minutes later they were showing the NPS id's to the morgue attendant at the hospital.

"Oh, you're park service. Okay," said the attendent. Dean shot Sam a triumphant grin as they pocketed the id's again.

The attendant went on, "But didn't you guys already come by?"

"We're from the DC office," said Dean smoothly. "Since there's been three deaths now, we were sent out to, you know, assess the situation first-hand."

"Understandable," said the attendant, nodding. "Usually there's only like one grizz attack a year, you know? Three is getting to be a bit much."

"Grizz as in ... grizzly bear?" asked Dean.

The attendant laughed. "You really are from DC, aren't you. Yeah, grizz as in grizzly bear. There's a lot of them around here."

"Oh...of course," said Dean. "We were, um, aware of that, of course. And are there any in, um, Death Canyon?"

"Oh, sure, they're all over. But you know what they say: ninety-nine out of a hundred grizzlies are cool. Unless you surprise them. And there's always that one, you know? Like that momma grizz who took her cubs through a campground last year to show them that nylon sleeping bags are tasty in the middle. That wasn't cool."

"Yeah," said Dean stiffly. "Don't you just hate the grizz that aren't cool."

"Well, I'm sure you guys will be loaded for bear anyways," said the attendant.

"Loaded for bear," repeated Dean mechanically. "Yes. We're always loaded for bear."

"Would you mind if we just took a look at the body?" broke in Sam, stepping slightly in front of Dean, who was looking rather pale.

As they walked down the hallway behind the attendant, Dean leaned over and whispered to Sam, "We are _not_ going to Death Canyon."

"Don't be such a wuss."

"But what if there's an uncool grizz? We are _not _loaded for bear, Sam."

"You're worried about an ordinary animal, when you've killed everything from demons to angels?" Sam whispered.

"Bears are bigger," whispered Dean unhappily.

Sam rolled his eyes but couldn't say anything further, for they'd just reached the morgue and the attendant had turned to talk to them again.

"The hiker's in number two," the attendant said, pointing to one of the refrigerated drawers that contained the corpses. "I'm supposed to supervise you but we don't really have many staff here. Rural hospital, you know? Meaning really, it's just me, and I'm kind of behind on my labwork. So, I'll be right down the hall in the lab. Could you just let me know when you're done?"

They assured him everything would be fine, and a few minutes later they were alone in the morgue.

Sam pulled out drawer number two, which turned out to contain the badly bruised body of a young woman. A quick glance confirmed what they'd suspected: the unfortunate girl's eyes had been burned from her head.

"Definitely not birds," said Dean. "Definitely angels. And look - bruises all over. Pretty badly beaten actually." The girl's face, torso and arms were all blackened and swollen in several places. There were also several long, vicious lacerations criss-crossing her body, across her face, stomach, and thighs.

"The report says those cuts are possibly from bear claws," said Sam, glancing at the file that was spread out on a counter near him. "But apparently the park biologist disagreed." He turned back to the body. "Look, Dean, the marks aren't parallel."

They peered closer at several long straight bloody lines that ran across the girl's shoulders. Sam was right; they weren't parallel. They also weren't very deep. Dean said, "Unless this was a bear with only one claw, I'd say those look a lot like whip marks."

"Wow. I think you're right," said Sam. "And check this out." He pointed to the girl's wrists and ankles. There were livid bruises in sharp lines around both wrists and both ankles.

"Somebody tied her up, and then somebody whipped her," Dean summarized.

Sam nodded. "And then some angel killed her. But why would an angel bother with tying up three random hikers and torturing them?"

"Maybe the hikers had some information?"

"Three random hikers in a national park? She was from Portland, Dean. Worked in a coffee shop. The other two were a dog trainer from LA and a programmer from Germany. What could they possibly know that would be worth torturing them?"

"Maybe angels wanted to use them as vessels, and the hikers wouldn't say yes?"

Sam considered that. "But if a 'yes' from torture counted as consent, wouldn't angels be torturing people all the time? Instead they have to go through this whole dog-and-pony show to try to convince people to not only say yes but genuinely _mean_ yes." He looked back down at the girl. "I don't get it. Why would an angel bother with torture? And why would an angel use a whip, anyway?"

Sam spotted something else, and leaned closer. "Wait a sec," he said. He pulled on a pair of lab gloves and peered at the girls' head again. "Look inside her mouth here, and inside her ears. And her nose. It's all completely black. Something's funny here." He peered further inside her mouth, and then looked at Dean and said "We better suit up."

"We just had breakfast, Sam."

"Yeah, well, I think you're gonna want a lab coat for this one. And maybe a mask," said Sam cheerily.

A few minutes later Sam was briskly sawing the top of the girl's head off with a bone saw.

"When did you go all Doc Frankenstein?" commented Dean, watching from a safe distance.

"When did you turn into such a wimp?" answered Sam. The saw cut through the last bit of bone, and Sam carefully lifted the top of the cranium away from the rest of the skull.

He peered inside, froze and said "What the hell? "

Dean took a step closer to look. "Whoa."

There was no brain.

"Where's... where's her brain?" said Dean faintly. "And why's it all black?"

Sam fished a flashlight from his pocket and shined it into the brain cavity while they both peered inside. The cranial cavity was jet black, and it seemed to be almost completely empty, except for a small, shriveled black lump about the size of a chicken egg that was sitting in the base of the skull.

Sam cautiously touched the inside of the braincase with a gloved finger. His lab glove came away coated in black powder. Sam sniffed it gingerly.

"I think this is _charcoal_, Dean." Sam said, puzzled.

"What the hell is that little black thing?" said Dean. He had leaned in for an even closer look and he bumped the table accidentally. Before either could react, the little black lump rolled right out of the cranium, bounced off the table, and fell to the floor, where it split into several ashy black chunks.

There was a long pause.

"I think that's her brain, Dean," said Sam.

"Oh, crap."

"Put it back, Dean."

"Double crap."

* * *

Dean had decided he needed a swig of whiskey before their next move, so they'd reconvened in a nearby bar. He cheered up noticeably when he discovered that several of the barstools were full-size horse saddles, and that the bar itself was entirely covered with silver-dollar coins. He insisted that they sit on the saddle-barstools, and just one shot of whiskey later he had managed to borrow a cowboy hat temporarily from the bartender.

"They have cowboy hats back in Kansas, too, you know," said Sam.

"I broke a girl's brain," said Dean. "Just give me a moment here." He slugged back the rest of his shot. "Seems like I break everything I touch," he muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing. Nothing," He turned to face Sam, tipping the cowboy hat back on his head. "Okay, Sam, we gotta figure this out. What the hell happened to that girl? We know that angels in their true form are this blinding light, right? They're, like, a multidimensional wavelength..."

Dean paused.

"...of celestial intent," Sam said, finishing the phrase for him. He frowned. "Where's that phrase from, anyway?"

"Don't remember," said Dean, puzzled. He stared down at the silver dollars embedded in the bar. "Don't know."

With an effort, Dean refocused his attention. He went on, "Anyway, we know that if you get a straight look at an angel in its true form, its white-light-multiple-wavelength-whatever form, your eyes burn out of your skull. Right?"

Sam nodded.

"But your brain's usually fine." Dean said. "Just the eyes burn. I mean, people can die but their brains aren't totally burned up, just cooked a bit. So, what kind of angel would not only burn out your eyes, but also _burn your entire brain to a cinder?_"

"A... really bright angel?" said Sam tentatively. "A really strong one. A really unfriendly one?"

"Exactly."

"You're thinking Castiel."

"I'm thinking Castiel. And if I'm right, we don't want to get _anywhere near him_. Seriously, dude. I like my brain soft and pink and squishy. Just the way it is. And Sam?"

"Yeah."

"We're barely able to take down even a regular angel. Something like this? If this turns out to be that Castiel dude? No way. Out of our league. I'm serious."

"Yeah. I know."

"Yippee ki-yi-yay." said Dean glumly. He tipped his hat back, leaned forward on the saddle and flagged down the bartender for another shot.


	3. Death Canyon

By early afternoon they'd finally made it out to Death Canyon.

"You know how I love the Impala, Dean," began Sam, as they bounced slowly up a rutted dirt road that, according to the map, led to the field with the old cabins. "But I'm starting to think it's not the absolute best choice of off-road vehicle."

"Shaddup," said Dean. He braked abruptly for a particularly deep series of washboard ruts, and gritted his teeth at an ominous scraping noise from the front end.

"We're going, like, three miles an hour and we're still bottoming out," said Sam.

"My fault. I took that pothole wrong. Shoulda gone left. Or right. She's fine. This is a tough car, Sam, you gotta give her some respect."

Bit by bit they inched up the rutted mountain road, past stands of aspen and maple that were in gorgeous fall colors, and patches of dark pine and spruce.

Dean had just slowed down for another pothole when a large dark shape moved into the road ahead.

"Whoa," said Dean. "What's that?" He braked to a halt.

The dark shape moved, stepping from shadow into sun. It was an elk. A huge bull elk.

It stood perpendicular to the road in a great shaft of sunlight, as if posing.

"Wow. Look at those horns," said Dean.

"Antlers."

"Whatever. Jeez, that thing is enormous. Didn't know they got so big." Dean inched the Impala forward. "Go on," he said to the elk.

The elk didn't budge. It raised its nose and sniffed the air. Its ears flattened back against its neck, and it slowly turned its head toward them, still sniffing the air.

Dean honked the horn and inched the car a few yards closer. "Move it, Bambi."

The elk turned its entire body now, shifting slowly around till it was lined up facing them, like a racehorse in a starting gate. It sniffed the air again, and then lowered its head and pawed the ground.

"Hm," said Dean. "So... elk...don't ever... attack, do they, Sam? They're just, like, big deer, right?"

The elk lowered its head, and tucked its chin, and flattened its ears to its neck. The full rack of antlers was now aimed directly at them.

"They're not supposed to, but - "

The elk charged, galloping directly at the Impala, head-on. It was shockingly fast, and seemed to come at them like a comet. The antlers suddenly looked lethal - they seemed at least as wide as the car and seemed covered with dozens of deadly-looking points.

At first it seemed the elk would come barreling right over the hood at them, but at the last second it lowered its head almost to the ground and crashed its antlers directly into the grill of the Impala. The car actually shuddered backwards.

"Holy friggin' hell!" Dean shouted. He slammed the Impala into reverse and hit the gas, but the elk had actually lifted the entire front end of the car off the ground, bracing its front feet and snorting. The front tires just spun in mid-air, the engine whining. Then there was a shriek of twisting metal, and the front bumper and grill pulled partly off the front of the car. The Impala suddenly dropped back down to the ground, the shocks groaning in protest and the whole car bouncing. Dean floored the gas again, and the Impala surged backwards. But the elk was being pulled along with them, jumping awkwardly down the road with them, its antlers still jammed in the semi-detached grill.

There was a sharp CRACK and the elk was suddenly free; one of the tines on its antlers had snapped off. It stuck its nose in the air again and huffed air at them with a throaty grunting noise. Its eyes were rolled halfway back in its head, its ears were completely flattened to its neck, and it looked positively satanic.

Sam said shakily, "Is that a frigging demon elk or something? Is it possessed? What the hell?!"

"I don't know but we're getting out of here _now_," said Dean. He was craned around again to look behind him, steering the car backwards down the road. He said "I did _not_ expect elk. I expected -" He braked to a sudden halt. "Bear! Bear!" he yelled. Sam spun around too and looked.

Through the rear window there seemed to be a solid wall of blondish-brown fur.

"Is that a grizzly?" Sam said, aghast.

"YES THAT IS A GRIZZ!" shouted Dean, "I AM POSITIVE THAT IS A GRIZZ." He whipped the car out of reverse and gunned it forward again, trying to veer around the elk.

But the elk jumped into their path and lowered its head again menacingly, ears flat, eyes rolling again.

"Are these shapeshifters? Skinwalkers? What the hell is going on?" said Sam. He was fumbling the top off of his flask of holy water, and he leaned out his window and tossed some at the bear.

"THAT'S JUST GOING TO PISS IT OFF, SAM," yelled Dean. But the bear didn't even seem to notice the holy water. Instead, it was sniffing noisily around the rear half of the car.

Then, with one casual swat with a single paw, the bear shattered the rear window.

"Shit, shit, SHIT," Dean was muttering, trying again to swing around the elk, but the elk was persistently blocking their path. "Should I try to run it down?" he asked Sam, his voice high with tension, as he glanced into the rearview mirror to try to keep an eye on the bear.

"That thing probably weighs half a ton at least and it'll just end up through the windshield on top of us," said Sam tightly. "And with all those antlers."

"Okay but -" Dean started to say, and then they felt the car shudder. The bear was leaning onto the trunk of the car, and a moment later it reached in with a front paw and swiped at the air over the front seats. Sam cringed forward against the glovebox and Dean ducked desperately as the great claws whipped through the air over both their heads. The paw alone seemed larger than a human head, the claws longer than steak-knives. "This is not cool," Dean gasped, scrambling for the door handle. "This is not cool! This is not cool!" He fumbled the door open and hurtled out of it, yelling, "Sam, get out!" over his shoulder. Sam was already spilling out of the other door, and they scrambled away from the car in opposite directions.

They both ran several yards off the road. And then both slowly stopped, and turned to look, as they realized that the elk and bear were paying them no attention to them whatsoever.

The animals were still just attacking the car, and seemed not to have even noticed that Sam and Dean had left. The elk was still wrestling with the mangled grill. The huge bear seemed to have gotten bored with the interior of the car and was now sniffing its way around the side of the car, growling, slowly moving to the front to join the elk.

Dean's and Sam's eyes met across the hood of the car. Sam mouthed "What the _hell_?" and Dean spread his arms in an eloquent shrug.

Then Sam's eyes widened, and he pointed to something tiny on the roof of the car. A little chickadee had landed on the roof of the car. It hopped down to the hood of the car and began pecking at the hood.

It was joined a moment later by two more chickadees. They were all cheeping in tiny fury, flicking their wings and pecking repeatedly at the hood, inching their way toward the front of the car.

"Chickadees!" Dean called to Sam in a stage-whisper. "Goddam chickadees! They always look so innocent!"

Sam began making a wide circle around the embattled Impala. He scurried carefully around the bear, keeping a wide distance from it, till he reached Dean's side.

"This isn't normal," he said to Dean.

"Ya think?" Dean said, looking at the car. "Look, Sam. Chipmunks now." A chipmunk had joined the fray and was gnawing determinedly at the left front wheel. "What's next, possessed bunnies? Are we in Demon Disneyland or something?"

"These aren't demons. At least the bear isn't. And these can't all be shapeshifters, or skinwalkers. Last I checked, neither of those can turn into little birds. Too small for them."

"Cursed object? Hex bag?" said Dean.

"Probably one of those. But I've never heard of either of those pissing off Mother Nature quite like this."

"How the hell are we going to find it and get it out of there?" said Dean. "And we don't even have any idea where it is." Just then, there was a screeching, grinding noise, as the elk finally succeeded in ripping the bumper, and front grill, completely off the car. It had them hung up in its antlers again somehow, and it backed away, dragging the twisted bumper along the ground, huffing in fury. And the bear followed, clawing at one end of the bumper like a cat playing with a piece of paper on a string. The elk dragged the bumper further and further away, the bear followed, and the little birds fluttered off the hood and began hopping down the road too, still chittering. A few moments later the chipmunk abandoned its assault on the tire and followed the other animals further down the road.

"So, I'm guessing it's in the bumper," said Sam. "Or the grill."

A few minutes later the entire animal mob had disappeared around a bend in the road. Sam and Dean were left standing in a peaceful beam of sunlight. The battered Impala was sitting askew on the road, the bumper missing and its rear window caved in. They could still hear chittering and growling sounds from further up the road.

Dean popped the trunk and they grabbed their shotguns. "Let's go to Death Canyon, Dean," Dean said sarcastically. "We won't meet any bears in Death Canyon, Dean. It'll be fun, Dean."

"Oh, shut up," said Sam, annoyed. "If it's something like a hex bag, what we need to focus on is, who the hell planted it on our car."

They both looked at each other. "That guy," they said simultaneously.

"The guy at the teepee place," Dean said. "In the leather jacket. Shit. We should have checked the car afterwards."

"Weird, though," said Sam, "I didn't get the feeling he was up to anything bad."

"No offense, Sam, but you do kind of suck at telling when people are up to something bad," said Dean, popping some shells into the shotgun. "Hey. Now I'm really loaded for bear!" He grinned at Sam, and Sam rolled his eyes.

Just then the animals went quiet. The snarling noises, the birds' cheeping, and the stomping and grinding noises; all had stopped.

Sam and Dean looked at each other, and then walked carefully up to the bend in the road. They inched cautiously around the turn, guns ready.

The elk and bear were both lying in the road, the elk flat on its side and the bear sprawled on its belly. The mangled Impala grill was lying on the ground between them, the bumper a short distance away.

"Are they dead?" Sam whispered.

"Looks like just sleeping," said Dean. "They're both breathing."

"Dean, look," Sam said, pointing at a torn-up piece of ribbon and a small set of tiny bones and feathers that were strewn around the two animals. "They must have torn it apart." The little pieces had been scuffed over with some loose dirt. Two chickadees were hopping in drunken circles around the little bones, a third still pecking at the ribbon half-heartedly.

Dean began to grin. "Hey, Sam, it's like the morning after Bambi's worst ever frat party. And the dopey little birds are the last ones standing, who'da thunk?"

He laughed. Sam shot him another exasperated look, and inched around the snoring grizzly to pick up the grill. Dean grabbed the bumper. They both backed off a few yards and set down the guns briefly in order to inspect the grill and bumper. After a moment, Dean said "There," pointing at something stuck in the grill. He pulled at it, and it came free; it was a small square of leather, now empty of its original contents, heavily pecked and gnawed.

"Hex bag," said Dean, with a sigh.

"I always thought you had to burn them," said Sam. "Interesting that it sort of wore out once they tore it apart. Let's burn the bag just in case."

They burned the remnants of the bag, along with the torn ribbon and and a handful of the other scattered items for good measure. It all went up in a puff of green flame - and immediately the bear snorted, the elk's ears twitched, and both animals' eyes suddenly snapped open. Sam and Dean froze. The little birds darted up into the trees, chittering, and both the elk and bear scrambled drunkenly to their feet.

The elk looked around in confusion, its front legs splayed. It focused blearily on the bear, and then backed away in such an unsteady scramble that it tripped on its own feet and went down again. It jumped up a second later, already looking more awake, spun nimbly and leaped into the forest. It bounded away in a series of noisy crashes and was soon lost from view.

Sam and Dean were left standing uncomfortably close to the grizzly bear. It was only about fifteen feet away. "Why did we put down the guns?" hissed Dean - for the shotguns were still on the ground, several feet away.

They both tried to sidle over to the guns, very slowly.

But as soon as they moved, the grizzly bear swung its great shaggy head to look at them. They could see its eyes focus on them as it came more awake. Dean took one more small step toward his shotgun, and the bear immediately took one small step toward Dean. Dean froze.

It gave them a very long, still stare, and both Sam and Dean wilted slightly under its steady gaze.

The bear's ears twitched. It sniffed the air. Then it blinked at them, turned quietly and ambled away, following the road further up the canyon. Sam and Dean stood very still till its shaggy rear end disappeared far up the road.

The brothers looked at each other, wide-eyed. They grabbed the guns, and the grill and bumper, and began to walk hurriedly back to the Impala.

"You know what," said Dean as they walked back. "That grizz was actually pretty cool. You just gotta stay calm with grizz, you know. Ninety-nine out of a hundred of them are cool, you know."

"You were a quivering pansy-assed wreck a minute ago," said Sam.

Dean looked offended. "Was not. Well... Okay, so maybe I might need a change of underwear. But really, it was a cool grizz, wasn't it?"

"It was a cool grizz," Sam agreed, grinning. "Once that damn hex bag was gone."

They got back to the Impala to find that one tire had gone flat - the one the chipmunk had been gnawing on. The tire was still hissing slowly. Dean leaned over and touched a tiny gnawed hole in the sidewall.

"Friggin' chipmunks." said Dean. "Spent all that time worrying about bears and I never even thought about chipmunks."

* * *

There was no cell reception in the canyon, so they had to drive the Impala extremely slowly back down the dirt road and all the way back to the teepee restaurant, Dean grumbling the whole way about whether the wheel rim was getting damaged. They didn't have a spare tire (this was one of the downsides of having an entire armory taking up all the space in the trunk) and it was two tedious hours of phone calls and waiting till a local tow company finally showed up to tow the Impala to a nearby repair shop in Jackson. Sam and Dean headed back to the Silver Dollar Saloon for an early dinner - a cheeseburger and fries for Dean, salad and a chicken wrap for Sam.

Dean's phone rang partway through the meal, and after a brief conversation he hung up and turned to Sam with a bright smile. "They've already replaced the tire; and they can get the rear window replaced tomorrow morning. The guy's even got a lead on a bumper and grill. Though I think I can get the old bumper fixed up, actually."

Sam nodded, flicking through a directory on his own phone.

"Hey, Sam, did you hear me? That's good news! The car's okay! She really came out pretty well for being attacked by a crazed grizzly bear, don't you think? And an elk and chipmunk. Plus the little birds. I told you she was tough, didn't I?"

"Yeah," said Sam absently, staring at one particular number.

"Sam?" said Dean, annoyed.

"Sorry," Sam said, looking up. "I have an idea. We need to figure out who's behind all this. Hold on a sec." He dialed a number, and waited a few moments while it rang. Dean took a bite of his burger, listening curiously.

"Hey, Charlene?" said Sam. "Yeah, it's Sam Winchester. Listen, I've got a favor to ask. Kind of a big favor. You do those location spells, right? Can you locate someone for me?"

"Charlene the witch?" whispered Dean. "Seriously, dude?"

"She's not a _witch_, Dean, you know that," Sam hissed back, covering the mouthpiece. "She just does a few spells, and only to help people." Dean opened his mouth to object, but Sam held up a hand to stop him, listening to the phone. "Yeah. Exactly. I can pay you later. No, no - heh - that's sweet, that's really very nice, but, actually, you know what, I'll pay in money." Sam blushed, and Dean snickered to himself, taking another bite of the burger.

Sam went on, "Here's the name. Castiel. C-A-S-T-I-E-L. All I want to know is where he is. And, Charlene, be careful with this one. Just get a rough location. Don't try to home in on it, don't get a look, don't give yourself away. I'm pretty sure this one's dangerous. It's an angel, a powerful one we think, and you know how they are." Another pause. "Yeah, I'll pay extra for the risk. Okay. Let me know, all right? Thanks. Bye." He hung up.

Dean was looking at him. "You really think Castiel might be the one behind the hiker deaths? I thought maybe I was just being paranoid."

"Well, I don't know, really. Just have a hunch about it. Just wanted to check." Sam stared down at his uneaten food.

"But that hex bag can't have been planted by an angel. When has an angel ever used hex bags? Also, the hex bag's got to have been planted by that guy, and he just didn't really seem the angel type, you know? Walking to a bus stop and all."

"Yeah... I know. Like I said, just a hunch."

Sam finally picked up his fork and began nibbling at his salad half-heartedly.

Fifteen minutes later his phone rang again.

"Hey, Charlene. You get anything?" A pause. "Okay. And you're all right? Okay. Thanks. And keep clear of that name after this, okay? Stay safe. I'll mail you the check. Thanks again, I owe you one." He hung up and sighed.

Dean looked at him. "Well?"

"She says Castiel is somewhere in or near Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming," Sam said. He looked glumly at a little park brochure that was propped up on their table. "Welcome to Grand Teton National Park!" it said, in bright cheerful lettering across the front.

Dean put his cheeseburger down. "Why can't we ever catch a friggin break?"


	4. Don't Look Now

The repair shop had given them a rental car for the day - a sturdy, reliable Subaru, to Dean's everlasting shame. Dean had refused to drive it ("I'm not touching any SUV keys. It'll make me feel soiled") so Sam drove them back to the motel for the night, after they'd finished their dinner and had a few beers.

As Sam pulled the Subaru up in front of their motel room, he said quietly to Dean, "Ready?" Dean nodded; he already had his gun out. They'd discussed this over the beers. The hex bag had been a serious attack; somebody knew they were here, and the somebody was after them. They had to be on high alert from now on.

They opened the motel door as if storming an enemy hideout, Dean swinging it open rapidly from the side while Sam stood ready to shoot. All looked calm inside, but Dean pointed to the little window in the back wall, by the bison mural. It was not quite closed, and the curtain in the window was blowing slightly in the breeze. The brothers ran over to the window and looked out carefully, guns ready, but there was no one in view. Glancing at each other, they ran outside and checked the entire perimeter of the motel too, but all was quiet.

Once back in the room, Sam glanced at his bag and reported, "Somebody's definitely been through our stuff." He pointed at the clothes in his bag. "I had my black socks on this side of the bag and the running socks on the other side, and now they're on the wrong sides."

Dean rolled his eyes. "You know, Sam, there's easier ways to tell if someone's been in your bag than by having to keep all your socks perfectly arranged all the time."

"What's wrong with liking my socks sorted?"

"Whatever gets you through the night, bucko. But, sorry to break the news, you'll have to get them all out now anyway, because we've definitely gotta do a full bag search. And a room search," said Dean.

Through years of practice they'd gotten pretty efficient at checking a room for possible hex bags or other planted items. They each checked their own belongings first, then divided the room up, Sam searching the bathroom, kitchenette, ceiling fan, windows and walls, while Dean did all the other furniture, stripped all the beds, and checked the mattresses and pillows. It was tedious, but it had to be done.

A half hour later they had been through every square inch of the room, but had found no more hex bags.

"It's almost worse when you don't find one," commented Dean, as they were tiredly making their beds again. "Then you wonder if you just missed it."

"Well, we do know someone was definitely here. We must've surprised him," Sam said. "I'm betting it's that same guy. He was probably found out the first hex-bag didn't work and was about to plant something else, and took off when we arrived. Didn't have time to close the window all the way." He looked at Dean. "He might try again. We could move to another place. Or ..."

"Or we could stay here and try and catch the bastard," Dean finished for him. "Give him a little talking-to about respecting people's cars."

"Yeah, that is more appealing, isn't it? And maybe we could get some answers. Like, is he working with Castiel or what."

"And what the hell is going on here in general."

They spent a bit of time shoring up their defenses - they already had one angel-ward drawn faintly on the inside of the door, but they added another big angel-ward under the door mat just outside, and several more on each wall. Then they added some general-purpose protection wards, and salted all the windows and doors for good measure.

"I'll take first shift," said Dean. Sam nodded. The plan was to alternate four-hour shifts tonight, and then keep the motel room staked out all the next day and night as well. A classic twenty-four-hour stakeout, but on their own room.

Dean set up for his shift in the little table at the front, where he could keep an eye on the parking lot as well as watch Sam and the back window. Once Sam had drifted off, Dean was slightly tempted to pass the time browsing through the Busty Asian Beauties website. But that seemed like it might be just a wee bit unprofessional on a stakeout night, so instead Dean got to work fieldstripping their guns, loading more salt cartridges, and cleaning their knives. They'd emptied the Impala's armory into a big duffel before handing the car over to the repair shop, and it was a good opportunity to check and clean all the gear.

It was past midnight, and Dean had just gotten all the guns done and had started prepping salt cartridges, when Sam started muttering in his sleep. Dean looked over. Nightmares were part of the territory for hunters, and it was second nature for Dean to automatically check Sam's breathing - and the expression on Sam's face - to try to assess whether or not to wake him up.

Sam was stirring slightly, his face tense and his breath coming fast. Dean craned his head to check his movement, and saw that Sam's hands were clenched and both feet were twitching. These was sure signs of a chase dream; Dean could almost see the dream-gun that Sam thought he had in his hands, and the pattern of the dream-running in the twitches in his feet.

Dean was about to call his name when Sam suddenly stilled and gave a sigh. He was quiet for a long moment. Dean thought the dream must have ended, and returned to the salt cartridges, glancing now and then out the window at the parking lot.

Then Sam muttered, "Wait. What's your name? Wait - please don't leave - what's your name? Who are you? What's your name? Wait, wait, please..."

He woke with a gasp, his eyes fluttering open.

Dean gave him a few moments to adjust, and then said, "Hiya, Sam. Back from the land of the lost?"

Sam looked over at him, his eyes wide. "That guy," he said. "That guy in the coat. It was that guy again, Dean." He sat up and swung his feet to the floor, running his hands through his hair and rubbing his face. "It was that dream. Jeez, Dean, it was _so_ vivid. It felt realer than here."

Sam stared blankly at his own feet for moment. "Dean," he added, "I'm _sure _this dream means something."

Dean sighed. "Okay, psychic boy." He reluctantly set down the salt cartridge he'd been filling, and turned to face Sam. "Since you're so sure it's important, did you see any clues? Any freaky details I should know?"

Sam thought for a moment. "You know, this one was a little different. Usually it's just, we're being chased or in a fight, it gets pretty hairy, and then poof, we're suddenly somewhere else entirely. Usually in a forest. Perfectly safe. And there's the guy in the coat walking away from us. Always in this sort of tan raincoat, like you said, right? So like I said, almost always we're in a forest. But this time, when we went poof we ended up by the teepee restaurant and he was walking away across the parking lot right past our car." He paused.

"Gee, Sam," said Dean drily. "That's amazing. I'm on the edge of my seat here."

Sam didn't notice Dean's tone, and went on, staring at the floor and frowning in concentration. "Also, this time he was really close at first, almost facing me, but I still couldn't see his face somehow, and I was trying to shake his hand. Like, I was offering him my hand to shake, trying to say hello, and he wouldn't take my hand. He just turned away and started walking." He glanced up at Dean, looking almost hurt. "Why wouldn't he at least shake my hand? I was just trying to say hello."

"That's just terrible," said Dean. "A guy in a dream didn't shake your hand. That must have been really traumatizing. Do you need a hug?"

Sam scowled at him. "Dean, I'm just trying to tell you the details."

"All right, emo-boy," said Dean. "That it then, for details? Any more clues?"

Sam sighed. "No. That's all I can remember. I know it's not much."

"Well, the teepee restaurant thing is probably just because we were actually there today," pointed out Dean. "We were actually watching a _real _guy who was _really _walking away, in _reality_, you know? So that setting probably just got incorporated into the dream. And the handshake thing, I think you just need some therapy for that."

Sam threw a pillow at him. Dean dodged, laughing. "You awake enough to take a shift?" he said.

Sam sighed, and nodded.

Sam took a quick shower to wake up a bit further, and then took over the salt cartridges, while Dean finally got into his own bed by the bison mural.

He had barely closed his eyes when he was immediately in his own recurring dream. The house, the empty rooms - all happened just as it had many times before. Dean searched through the rooms as he always did, never sure what he was looking for, never finding anything other than the little fallen angel.

Tonight, the enemy was wild animals, of course. Dean had just finished his second circuit of the rooms when he nearly bumped into a massive grizzly bear that was standing on the wooden parquet floor in the foyer. However, the bear didn't move; it just looked at Dean calmly, as a mob of thousands of chipmunks burst out of the kitchen and came flooding into the hallway. The chipmunks were unreasonably terrifying, and Dean bolted up the stairway with all the chipmunks chasing him. He was pretty sure he heard the grizzly bear laughing from downstairs as the chipmunk mob chased him all the way down the upstairs hallway and started gnawing their way through the door.

The panic Dean felt seemed completely out of proportion, considering it was just chipmunks, but he could not seem to make himself calm down. Soon, as usual, he was praying aloud for help.

The chipmunks disappeared and the walls faded away, as they always did, and soon he was standing in the soft quiet golden light of the empty room. And he knew, with that peculiar, unshakable certainty, that the man in the coat was standing behind him.

Dean also knew exactly what would happen next. He'd turn as slowly as he could, and he'd get, at best, one partial glimpse of the man in the coat. If he was lucky, maybe he'd see a shoe or a hand. The man's face would be in shadow, and then Dean would wake up.

He suddenly felt on the verge of despair. Why couldn't he ever see the guy's face? What was the point of this ridiculous dream? He didn't even want to turn around - what was the point? The guy would always just disappear in the end.

So this time he just kept facing forward.

Dean stood like that for a long time. Eventually he dropped his eyes to the floor, taking in the warm yellow color of the polished pine floorboards. Long minutes went by, as he stood there in that soft golden light, and the entire time, Dean could feel that the guy was still there, still standing a few feet behind him.

As he stood there, Dean felt a warm sensation of comfort and peace spreading over him, and he gave a long, slow sigh.

It was good to know he wasn't alone. It was good to know the man was there.

It was good to know his friend was still with him.

Dean felt safe.

He heard a faint creak from a floorboard behind him, and knew the man had moved slightly closer. _He's still trying to protect me_, he thought. _Even now. Despite everything. _The thought didn't quite make sense.

"I'm sorry," whispered Dean. He had no idea what he was apologizing for.

He felt the lightest of touches on his shoulder. The man had put his hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean completely forgot the rules of the dream, turned to look at the man's face, and immediately found himself lying in bed staring up at the ceiling.

He muttered "God-friggin-dammit." Why had he turned? He shouldn't have turned.

"Dean?" said Sam softly from across the room. "You ok?"

"Yeah," said Dean. "Fine." He rolled onto his side, away from Sam, and resolutely closed his eyes.

Dean pretended he'd fallen asleep again, but in actuality he could not get back to sleep and lay awake for the entire rest of Sam's shift. He knew Sam could almost certainly tell from Dean's breathing that Dean wasn't really asleep, but Sam didn't push, and Dean lay there listening to the soft sounds of Sam cleaning the knives and repacking all the gear. It was actually rather peaceful. And the whole time, it seemed he could still feel the calm, reassuring touch of that hand on his shoulder.

* * *

_A/N - Those of you asking "is Cas ever going to really show up?" - __Your patience will be rewarded, I promise._


	5. Flash Of Silver

_Author's Note: thank you all for your reviews and favorites! This is my first fanfic and also the first fiction (of any kind) that I have ever shown to anybody, so I really appreciate your comments. Here's a chapter I know several of you were waiting for. More to come - this story is all plotted, will have about 8 more chapters and the next four are mostly written. (UPDATE: okay, way more than 8 more) thank you._

* * *

The stakeout day went slowly. In the morning, Sam moved the Subaru to a little cafe further down the mountain road, to make it look like they'd left the motel, and then walked back up to the motel room to join Dean. Then they traded shifts in the motel room all day. In theory one of them rested while the other kept watch; in reality they both ended up watching cheesy daytime tv with the sound lowered, with whoever was on watch trying to remember to glance out the window now and then.

Sam tried only once, briefly, to ask Dean if he'd had the dream again. Dean dodged the question, and Sam let it alone.

By late afternoon they were both restless and began to take turns leaving the room. First Sam went for a run while Dean kept watch; once Sam got back, Dean headed to town to get the Impala. (This required that he drive the Subaru back to the repair shop, something he grumbled about noisily, but at last conceded was unavoidable.)

The Impala turned out to be in surprisingly good shape. The new rear window had been installed, the tire was fixed, and the shop had even managed to reattach the original bumper. Only the front grill was still missing. Dean took it through a car wash just for luck, picked up a take-out meal and a six-pack of beer, and rejoined Sam at the motel just before sunset.

Sam reported that absolutely nothing had happened while Dean had been gone.

It wasn't unusual to have an unproductive day while on a case, but still they both felt a bit discouraged. They ate quietly, idly watching reruns of _Starsky & Hutch _ and _Hawaii Five-O_ on the little tv, while outside the sun sank below the mountains. Dean was on watch now, so he sat at the little table, peeking through the curtains occasionally at the little gravel parking lot and the dark pines outside. A chill, clear twilight began to settle over the hills.

"You know," said Dean, as he finished his burger, "even if we find this hex bag dude, what next? What after that? Can we really try to go up Death Canyon again? Because, even when we don't have any crazy animals to deal with, if it comes down to confronting this Castiel guy ... man, I just hate this feeling that we're up against an enemy that we can't handle." He slurped down the last of his chocolate shake, set the empty cup on the table, and turned to Sam, who was seated on the foot of his bed eating a pasta salad. Dean went on, "People are _dying_. And that means we've _got _to figure out a way to deal with this Castiel. I just wish we had a reliable way to take down angels. You were right, you know, angel-blades just don't cut it. Too close-range. Angel-blades, the banishing sigil, and wards...that's all we've really got against them, and it's just not enough."

Sam nodded. He'd finished his salad, and he tossed its plastic container in the trash. "The problem is, angels are just too strong," he said. "And that healing ability is really a bitch. Remember that time those two angels showed up in our hotel room and got in that fight and fell on my car? And then they both just disappeared? Car was _totaled_, and they were both completely fine. Fell from the second floor and they were _fine_. How do you deal with an enemy that can heal itself like that?"

Dean looked at him. "What two angels?"

"Those two random angels who were running around looking for the staff of Moses. Who had that big knife fight right in front of us. I can't even remember why they showed up in our hotel room, actually." Sam frowned. "Was one of them talking to us or something? Why did they even come to our room?"

"Sam, what are you talking about? What two angels?"

Sam looked at him narrowly, "Don't tell me you don't..." He saw Dean's blank expression, and said slowly, "How can you have forgotten two angels in a huge fight falling on my car? It was only the most dramatic way possible to take out my car."

"Sam, it was a tree that fell on your car," said Dean. "Not angels."

They stared at each other a moment. Then Dean sighed, and closed his eyes.

"We just found another one, didn't we?" said Dean. "Shit. This is really starting to creep me out."

Sam flopped back on his bed, flat on his back, his arms spread out limply. "How many are we up to now?"

Dean started to tick off a list on his fingers. "How I got out of Hell. How you got out of Hell. How you got rid of Lucifer. Who threw the holy-fire at Michael, me or Bobby. How we went back in time, was it a spell by Bobby or was it that annoying dude Gabriel. How I got the demon-blade back. What Benny and I were looking for in Purgatory. Why we went to that mental hospital. Now this new one, how your car got ruined. That's, um, _nine_ now. Any others?"

"Well," said Sam, staring at the ceiling. "There's something else I've been noticing."

"Yeah?"

"Let me see if I can show you," said Sam. He paused, thinking. "Okay. I'm gonna ask you a question and you tell me the very first thing that pops into your head. The thing is, don't think about it, just immediately tell me the very first image that comes to mind."

"O-kaaay?" said Dean, confused.

"Last fall, we went to Detroit and you killed a reaper. When we opened the door of the reaper's apartment, what was the first thing you saw?"

"Well, we busted the door down and the reaper had an angel-blade and was -" Dean stopped.

"Was what?"

"Attacking ...somebody. No, wait. That's not right. Um..." Dean was silent for a moment.

"I'm remembering it wrong," he said slowly. "There wasn't anybody else there. It was just the reaper."

Sam sat straight up. "See what just happened? For a second there, you were remembering something else. Then it kind of ... went away, and a different version popped into your head. Dean, that's been happening to me _a lot._ And it looks like it's been happening to you too, though maybe you haven't noticed it till now._ "_

Dean was frowning, staring at the floor.

"It's hard to notice till you start looking for it," said Sam. "Here's another one that tripped me up; maybe it'll trip you up too. A few weeks after that reaper thing, you went to Idaho. What made you decide to go to Idaho?"

"I got a phone call from - " said Dean immediately. He stopped, and closed his eyes.

"From who?"

"Shit, shit, shit," Dean said, squeezing his eyes shut. He put both hands to his head, pressing the heels of his hands to his closed eyes. "It was, dammit, dammit. No. Wait. There wasn't a phone call. I read about the case online... didn't you show it to me? Wait. Dammit!" He opened his eyes and stared at Sam.

"This is so friggin' creepy," Dean said shakily.

"Dean, I think there's _hundreds_ of things we're remembering wrong. Not just nine or ten. _Hundreds_. Somebody's cast a spell on us or something. Somebody's tried to change our memories. We still get these tiny little glimpses of the real memory, but just for a fraction of a second. Then it kind of, just, evaporates and there's a different memory in its place."

"Do you think it's random? Are we forgetting totally random things?" asked Dean. "Like, have our memories just gone to crap all across the board? Or all are these different things related somehow?"

"It seems like they can't all be related... cause it seems like it covers practically everything we've done, doesn't it? And a lot of these things go back _years_."

Dean thought a moment. "Maybe we just got our brains kind of fried from all the shit we've been through. Maybe a spotty memory is just what you end up with after taking the scenic route through Hell?"

"I don't know," said Sam. "The only other clue I've noticed is, I think it stopped about six months ago. Every memory I've got that's from within the last six months seems pretty solid."

"So...either we've sort of healed up now... or..."

"Or somebody cast a spell on us six months ago. To mess with our memories."

Dean stood, rubbing his eyes restlessly, and began pacing back and forth. He stopped near the window, automatically looking out of the small gap in the curtains to check on the Impala. "Sam, I don't even know how we can -"

He stopped in mid-sentence.

"Whoa. Creeper alert," Dean said, beckoning Sam over. "Over by the main road, under that little shrub." Sam joined him at the window, and they both peered carefully through the gap in the curtain.

There was a man standing in the shadow of a small tree at the far side of the parking lot, by the main road, half-concealed by a leafy shrub. It was hard to make out any details, but he seemed to be wearing the same kind of jacket that they'd seen earlier at the teepee restaurant.

He was looking toward the Impala.

"Check out the jacket. Same guy, you think?" whispered Dean.

"Maybe he just _really_ likes the car," said Sam.

"Y'know what I've noticed?" said Dean. "Guys who like cool cars don't hide under bushes." He added, "Come on," nodding toward the window at the back of the room.

Sam caught his meaning immediately and grabbed his pistol; Dean already had his in his hand.

They'd chosen this particular motel room partly because of the back window, which provided a potentially useful emergency exit - not just for intruders looking for a quick getaway, but for Sam and Dean too. Both brothers crawled out of that window now, sliding over the sill quietly and then working their way into the pines behind the motel. They then walked in a wide circle till they'd crept almost all the way around the parking lot, keeping far back at first to stay in the cover of the pines.

They inched their way closer and found a helpful shrub of their own to hide under. From this viewpoint they were looking directly across the gravel parking lot at the motel, facing their own room door. The Impala was parked a few yards away from the room door, parallel to the motel so that they could see the passenger side of the car. There were no other guests at the motel - this late in the fall, there were few visitors - so the rest of the parking lot was empty.

To their left was the main road. And by the main road was the man in the leather jacket, who was now moving slowly out from the cover of his little tree, walking into the glow of the single streetlight. He was holding a plastic bag with one hand, and with the other he held his jacket closed against the chill evening air.

The man looked around a few times, glancing up and down the main road. Then he walked closer to the Impala. He set his plastic bag down a few feet from the car, and then walked past the car right up to the door of their motel room.

He stepped onto the doormat.

"Not an angel," whispered Sam. Dean nodded; the new angel-ward was under the doormat. It had been drawn in fresh blood - Dean's arm was still bandaged from the cut he'd made last night - and they knew that no angel could step directly onto a fresh angel-ward like that.

The man put his left hand softly on the door, and turned his head to put his ear up to the door.

"Oh, _that_ doesn't look suspicious _at all_," whispered Dean. "Let's get him." Dean started to rise, but Sam pulled him back down.

"Let's see what he does first," suggested Sam. "Maybe he even wants to talk to us or something. Let's see if he knocks."

Dean subsided unwillingly.

The man did not knock. Instead, after listening at the motel door for a few moments, he pulled something out of his pocket, some small object that was dangling from his fingers. He still had his left hand on the door of the motel, while with the right he held up the small object and studied it for a few moments. Then he turned and walked quietly back to the Impala.

They could not get a look at the man's face - he kept looking down at the thing in his hand, and the shadow from the streetlight made it difficult to make out any features, other than that he had dark hair. They also couldn't see what the little object was.

"What's he doing with that little thing?" whispered Sam. "Is it another hex bag?"

Dean didn't answer, for the dark-haired man had just reached out to put his left hand on the car's roof. He glanced briefly at the motel door again, and then began to walk in a slow circle all the way around the car, running his left hand along the edge of the car, staring at the object in his right hand the whole time.

He stopped abruptly by the front passenger door, still staring at the little object. Putting his face close to the passenger window, he peered inside, and then tried the door handle. It was locked, of course.

The man pulled a long piece of wire out of his inside jacket pocket.

Dean's fists clenched; Sam put a hand on his shoulder to keep him down.

The dark-haired man slid the wire down the Impala's window into the door, and fiddled with it briefly. Sam and Dean could both hear the soft _thunk_ of the door unlocking. The man put the wire away, opened the door, and pulled it wide open.

He looked at the motel room door one more time. Then he leaned slightly inside the door to peer into the interior of the car, one hand still on the roof.

"I've had enough," hissed Dean to Sam. Before Sam could say anything, Dean rose to his feet, his gun in his right hand, and ran quietly across the parking lot. He tiptoed for the first several strides. The stranger didn't hear him coming, and was still leaning over looking inside the Impala when Dean charged the last few feet and rammed the door hard. It slammed onto the stranger's ribcage with a painful-sounding _thunk_, and he grunted in surprise and pain.

The door swung open again on its own, and the stranger nearly crumpled to his knees, stunned by the blow. Dean grabbed his jacket collar with his free hand, yanking him backwards and swinging him hard to the ground. The man's face slammed into the gravel of the unpaved parking lot. Dean kneed him roughly in the back, put his gun directly to the man's head and growled, "Freeze, sucker!" But the dark-haired man twisted under him somehow. There was a flash of silver, and Dean felt a stinging blow on the wrist of his gun hand. His hand went numb, the gun flew away, Dean lost his balance, and suddenly he was being flipped to the side. In what seemed like a millisecond Dean found himself flat on his back, the stranger kneeling over him with an angel-blade gripped tight in both hands. The point of the blade was pressing right at Dean's heart, and the man was clearly just about to throw his whole body weight onto the blade. Dean distantly heard Sam gasping "No, wait!" He stared up at the man, and their eyes met.

Dean felt the stranger actually flinch in surprise. He saw him blink, saw his eyes widen, heard the sharp intake of breath. The pressure of the tip of the blade eased. _I should knock the blade away_, Dean thought, but he could not seem to move, and could not tear his eyes from the stranger's face.

He seemed just an ordinary man. Black hair, blue eyes. Perhaps in his late thirties. Wearing a leather jacket that was a little too big. Just a man. Nothing unusual.

Yet, looking into those blue eyes, Dean felt as if all the breath had suddenly left his lungs. For a moment he seemed to be somewhere else entirely, hearing a very distant voice say: _What's the matter, Dean?_

For a long moment they simply stared at each other.

A tremendous _thump_ brought them both back to reality as Sam hurtled into the man's side with a brutal tackle, throwing him to the ground away from Dean. The blade clattered to the ground near Sam's feet, and Sam kicked it away.

Dean shook his head, trying to snap out of his strange trance, and scrambled to his feet. He grabbed his gun, got it in a solid double grip and and aimed it at the stranger's head, taking care to aim well clear of Sam. "I said FREEZE!" he barked. But the stranger wasn't actually struggling at all now; he was simply letting Sam pin him. He spread his hands in submission, flat on his back, and Sam rose slowly to his feet, looking down at him.

"Sam, get that blade," said Dean.

But Sam seemed to be having the same problem Dean had had a moment earlier: he was staring at the black-haired stranger, mouth agape, the stranger staring back at him, and both of them seemingly unable to look away. "Sam?" said Dean. "_Sam_. Get the blade." Sam shook his head and seemed to come to himself. He bent to pick up the blade, and tucked it in the back of his belt.

The stranger seemed not to even have noticed Dean's gun; instead he was just staring at Sam and Dean, looking back and forth between them almost hungrily. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, breathing jerkily, clutching his side with one hand, still just staring at them. Dean entirely forgot to order him to stay still, and instead found himself just watching the stranger's face, mesmerized. Several expressions flitted across the stranger's face that Dean could not quite follow: shock, a brief flash of hope that was almost immediately extinguished, and then something like sorrow.

The stranger's forehead and cheek had been scraped rather badly during the scuffle, and a trickle of blood was starting to make its way down the side of his face. Dean looked at the blood and thought, _I made him fall. He's hurt. I hurt him. I shouldn't have hurt him._

A long silence stretched out. Dean had to struggle to get back in gear and come up with something coherent to say. Sam, standing a few feet away, was also uncharacteristically silent. Dean finally waggled his gun and said, stumbling over his words, "Uh, give me one reason why I shouldn't, um, just shoot you right now, buddy."

The man glanced at Dean's gun for the first time. He drew a breath, and opened his mouth as if to say something. Then he paused for a long moment, as if considering, and rejecting, several possible things to say.

"You can do whatever you want," he said at last, in a rough, low voice, "but I am not your enemy."

"That's a funny thing to say," said Sam, "given that you just tried to stab my brother in the heart." He added, "And just broke into our car. And put a hex bag in it yesterday."

"And, um," said Dean, trying to contribute something useful, "Plus, my wrist hurts." It sounded childish, and Sam shot him a puzzled glance.

The man gave him a strange look, and Dean again found himself staring helplessly into his solemn blue eyes. The man said gently, as if explaining something to a child, "I used the flat of the blade on your wrist. I could have taken your hand off entirely. I was only trying to defend myself. _You_ attacked _me_, remember? From behind. I didn't know who you were." His forehead and cheek were bleeding freely now, blood trickling faster down the side of his face, and he raised a hand to feel at the wounds tentatively. He added, "And as for the hex bags, I was trying to find and remove them. I wasn't planting them."

"Come off it," said Sam, who seemed to have successfully gotten himself back into interrogation mode. "You put a hex bag in the car yesterday. In the grill. We saw you walking away from that teepee place. We _saw _you."

"I am telling the truth," said the stranger, looking up at Sam. "Your car was clean then. I'd just checked it. If you found an evil item later - did you?" He suddenly looked a bit worried, and glanced at Dean. "Oh. Is that why you had a different car last night? Did you have some kind of problem with your own car? Did you find a hex bag, or a wind-call or fire-call, something like that?"

Dean had no idea what a "wind-call" or "fire-call" were, but he nodded.

"We had kind of a run-in with some animals," said Sam. "There was something in the grill."

The man frowned, and his mouth twisted. "I'm sorry. Either I missed it or it was put there later. Did you stop anywhere after the restaurant? Somewhere where somebody else could have gotten to your car?"

Dean and Sam glanced at each other. _The hospital_, Dean thought. _Or the saloon_.

The stranger watched them exchange the look. He said, with earnest sincerity, "I swear to you, I did not put anything in your car yesterday. And I wasn't putting anything in it right now, either. You can check my pockets if you don't believe me."

Dean considered that, and nodded. He said to Sam, "Check his pockets. And his bag over there. And you, buddy, you stand up, _real_ slow, and keep your hands in the air. And _don't _try anything." He discovered he had been letting his gun droop down, and made himself bring it up again.

The man gave one slow nod and got gingerly to his feet, again clutching his side where the car door had struck it. Once he was standing, it seemed to be a little difficult for him to raise the arm on that side, but he tried.

Sam went through all the man's pockets, and patted him down. The man submitted to this quietly, his hands half-raised, staring at the ground.

He turned out to have no wallet, no id, and no keys, all of which seemed a little odd. And no weapons, other than the angel-blade that was now tucked in the back of Sam's belt. The man had very little, in fact; a cheap pre-paid phone, a single dollar bill and some loose change, and a crumpled flyer with the hours of the local town library. Sam showed these to Dean and returned them to the man, who took them silently.

Sam went next to the plastic grocery bag that the stranger had set down by the car earlier. It had been trampled in the fight, during Sam's dramatic tackle, and was looking rather worse for wear. Sam upended it and began sorting through the contents.

Dean kept his eyes, and his gun, trained on the black-haired stranger as Sam went through the bag. Blood was trickling rapidly down the side of the stranger's face now, but he didn't even bother to wipe it away. He gradually raised his eyes to look at Dean, his gaze dark and intense.

Sam said, "Umm... Dean." Dean tore his eyes away from the stranger and glanced over at Sam. Sam held up a mangled loaf of bread. It had a bright red "DAY OLD" sticker on the wrapper. Sam showed Dean a few other things - some crushed bananas, a half-dozen eggs (all smashed), and a package of cheese that now had gravel embedded into the sides.

Dean looked back at the man, who was gazing at them quietly.

"Why were you carrying all that?" Dean pressed.

"It was my food for the week," he said. He added, by way of explanation, "I was walking home. I live near here."

Sam and Dean looked at each other. The man really had no hex-bags, and no ingredients with which to make one. Sam rose to his feet and said, " So you're really saying you broke into our room and our car to try to _help_ us?"

The man nodded.

It sounded absurd, and yet Dean believed him.

Dean finally lowered his pistol, and the stranger, watching him closely, lowered his hands. Dean asked, honestly bewildered, "Uh, so, who are you, why were you checking our stuff, who _did_ plant that hex bag, and _why the hell didn't you tell us?_"

The stranger sighed. He glanced down at the ground, and then looked back up. "I know who you are." He glanced at Sam, and then back at Dean. "Sam and Dean Winchester. You're rather well known, you know. In certain circles. I judged it likely you might turn up in this town at some point, given the deaths that have been reported in the newspapers. So I was already keeping watch for your car." He glanced over at the Impala. "I knew you drive that type of car. It is ... distinctive." He raised an eyebrow at Dean, who grimaced. This was always the problem with the Impala - it attracted attention - but Dean just couldn't bear to give the car up.

"Then I saw your car here, two nights ago," the man went on. "As I said, I live near here, and there are not many affordable motels in this area. I saw you were staying at this one. Also, there are ... certain people who I've been following, in this area, who are also paying attention to you." He paused a moment. "I, um, I overheard them talking about you yesterday. They have noticed your arrival too. I wasn't sure what they were planning, but I felt certain they were... up to no good, I think you would say?" Despite his American accent, the stranger had an oddly formal manner of speech, like an immigrant who had only recently learned English.

He continued, "I became worried, and I thought I should do a few checks of your car and your room, just in case. I found one hex bag in your room yesterday, and removed it. I believe there is another in your car right now."

Dean noticed that he had neatly evaded the "who are you", but decided not to press that just yet.

"The one in the room, we would have found it ourselves, you know," said Dean. "We already checked the whole room."

The man tilted his head curiously. "Did you check inside the curtain rods?"

Dean exchanged a guilty glance with Sam. They had not, in fact, checked the curtain rods.

"Hex bags don't fit in curtain rods." said Sam, a touch defensively.

An odd expression passed over the stranger's face, a mixture of equal parts exasperation, amusement, and concern. "Some of the items they use are very small. And they're not always in actual bags."

"Look, why not just friggin' _tell _us?" said Dean. "Why sneak around breaking into our room and car like that? Why not just _tell_ us?"

The man's mouth twisted. He hesitated.

"I didn't want to talk to you," he said at last.

"Why ... not?" asked Dean, baffled.

The stranger just looked at him.

After an uncomfortably long pause, Dean realized that the stranger wasn't going to answer the question.

The stranger then said, looking back and forth between Sam and Dean, "Look. Whatever you decide to do about me, there _is_ something evil in your car. You need to find it. You can use my detector if you'd like to do it yourself -"

"That thing you were looking at?" interrupted Sam.

"Yes. It's over there on the ground, if you want to look at it," the man said, nodding toward a little crumpled bit of silver a few yards away. Sam picked it up, and brought it over to Dean.

It was a silver crucifix, on a short silver chain.

"It's specially sanctified," said the man. "Dipped in holy oil and then given a special blessing - there's a few different ways you can do it - then left it in bright sunlight for a day. After that it can detect the presence of evil intent. It spins counterclockwise if it's detecting anything. Tonight there was nothing at your room, so I checked your car and it picked up something near the front seats. As I said, you can use it yourself if you wish -"

"We're not touching your weird little whatsit," interrupted Dean, determined to appear properly skeptical. He added, "What if it's cursed or something?"

Sam added placatingly, "No offense, but, we don't know you at all."

The man shot a jerky glance at Sam, looking almost as if Sam had just kicked him. He blinked, looked at the ground, and nodded.

"Of course," he said quietly, to the ground. "You don't know me."

He lifted his head and walked directly to Dean. He was moving stiffly, and still had one arm wrapped tightly around his ribs where the car door had hit him. As he approached, Dean made a half-hearted effort to raise his gun again, but the man calmly reached out, set one finger on the barrel of the gun, and gently pushed it down, holding Dean's eyes the whole time. Then he plucked the silver crucifix out of Dean's other hand.

The man turned and walked to the car. The passenger door still stood open. The man shot Dean an unreadable look and crouched down on his heels between the open door and the passenger seat.

Dean holstered his pistol, feeling a bit sheepish.

The stranger held the little crucifix up, dangling it by its silver chain. Sam and Dean both inched a bit closer, till they could see that the little crucifix was slowly spinning counterclockwise.

The stranger began to move it around the interior of the car, waving it around in the air and holding it close to the glove compartment and the seat. It continuing spinning slowly until he lowered it to the floor mat; then the crucifix started spinning much faster. The man flipped up the floor mat, picked up something from underneath it, and got stiffly to his feet. He felt at the item for a moment with both hands, winced, and then tossed it over toward Dean.

It landed neatly at Dean's feet. It was a flattened wad of little charred twigs, tied together with a thin strip of blood-stained leather. It was smoking slightly.

"That is a fire-call," the man said. "Meaning, it calls the element of fire to itself. It would have caused your car to catch fire. It's already quite hot; it must have been in your car all day. I strongly suggest you throw it in the river. Tonight." He looked at Sam and reached one hand out, saying "May I have my blade."

Sam hesitated only a moment before putting the handle of the angel-blade in the man's hand. The man did something with his hand and the angel-blade seemed to magically disappear up his sleeve. He then held out the little silver crucifix to Sam, saying "You should keep this. You will need it." Sam took the crucifix silently.

The man looked over at Dean. "I should leave," he said. "I apologize for the disruption. I see now that I have alarmed you. That wasn't my intent. I was trying to..." He swallowed, paused, and continued. "I was trying to help." He fell silent for a moment, and glanced up at the sky. The first stars were coming out.

He said, looking back and forth between the two brothers, "I won't check your car again if you wish me not to, but you must keep checking it yourself. And your room, and both your beds, and everything in your bags. They'll keep trying. They obviously know you're here now. You need to be much more careful."

"You're a hunter," said Dean.

But the man shook his head. "No. I'm not. And it is not safe for us to talk, so we will not discuss this further."

He began to turn to leave.

"Wait, wait," said Sam. "Why not come inside, and we can at least patch you up a bit?"

Dean was glad Sam had spoken up, for it suddenly seemed very important to keep the man from leaving. He chimed in, "And we could give you a ride home after." Dean gave him a friendly grin, and waved expansively toward the Impala. "You might like riding in a great old car like this."

The man's eyes slid to the Impala for a moment, then back to Dean. "I ... must decline," he said, obviously reluctant. "I'm fine." He clearly wasn't fine, though; blood was all over his face now and he was moving very stiffly. Yet he turned away.

"It's a sweet ride, actually," said Dean, feeling utterly compelled now to try to get the guy into the Impala. _He could ride shotgun_, he thought. _Bet he'd like that_. "Really classic car. You ever been in a '67 Impala?"

"Yes," the stranger said unexpectedly. He was silent for a moment, looking over at the Impala with a faint smile. "I had friends with that sort of car," he said at last, turning back to Dean. "Sometimes I rode in it with them."

He blinked, and glanced at the ground. He began to turn away again, both arms wrapped around himself now, and Dean could not think of anything to say that would get him to stay.

The man paused and looked back over his shoulder. He said, "This is a very dangerous place for you both. You must be careful. I'm quite serious." He looked at them for a long moment, half turned away, half leaning back toward them. Again a fleeting expression crossed his face, something reluctant and sorrowful that was erased almost immediately, leaving just a calm and steady gaze. "Take care of each other," he said. Then he turned away and began walking to the road.

"Wait, what's your name?" called Sam after him, but the man did not reply. He had reached the road by now, and Sam and Dean stood in the parking lot watching him trudge up the long mountain road till he went out of view around a turn.

There was a long pause as they both kept gazing up the empty road.

"Was that weird?" said Dean eventually. "That was weird, wasn't it?"

"That was weird," agreed Sam.


	6. River And Forest

Sam and Dean were both still gazing up the road in a sort of reverie when there was a sharp crackling sound at Dean's feet, and Dean jumped back with a yelp. They both looked down at the little clump of twigs, which were still smoking faintly at Dean's feet. A small orange spark formed at the the twig-tips and jumped a few inches away, fizzling out on the gravel.

"We gotta go throw that thing in the river," said Sam.

"Yeah," said Dean.

"We're just gonna trust that guy about this, right?"

"Yup," said Dean, not feeling any need to justify this decision. It just seemed obvious. "I'll go close the window and lock up. Keep an eye on it for a sec, would you?"

Dean was back in a few moments, and Sam picked up the wad of twigs, holding it carefully by the little leather tie. They got into the Impala and drove down the mountain, toward the nearby town of Jackson, where there was a narrow, fast whitewater river that passed under a small bridge.

It was only about a fifteen-minute drive, but they were not even halfway there when more sparks began jumping off the twigs, landing mostly on Sam's jeans. He yelped at each one and began batting them out. The twigs were also smoking more, thick dark curls of smoke spiraling up from their tips and wafting up to the Impala's roof. "Could you hurry up?" Sam said, coughing. By the time Dean pulled the car off the shoulder at the edge of the bridge, the Impala was full of smoke, both brothers were coughing, and Sam was shifting the twigs rapidly from hand to hand, wincing at their heat and slapping repeatedly at the little sparks that kept falling to his legs.

"Just stop the car, Dean, STOP, ow! Why didn't we think to put them in a bowl of water or something?" Sam said, as Dean braked hurriedly to a halt by the bridge. Sam ran out of the car, Dean following close behind, and Sam threw the twigs over the bridge railing to the river rushing below. The twigs hit the water with a puff of steam and an blaze of orange sparks. The river carried them swiftly away. For a while they could still see little spurts of orange sparks in the dark water, till the twigs were carried out of sight downstream.

They stood a while there, leaning on the bridge railing, looking down at the dark water tumbling out from under the bridge.

"That thing would have destroyed the Impala," Dean said.

"Yeah. That guy kind of saved our butts on this one, didn't he?" said Sam. "Or at least, saved the Impala's butt."

"Our butts too if he also took something out of the room. Curtain rods, sheesh," said Dean. "No fair that they used the curtain rods."

Dean watched the river a moment longer, and added, "Someone must have got to the Impala when it was in the repair shop. I forgot to check it over when I picked it up... I was going to, I was thinking about it, but I just ... forgot." He looked at Sam sheepishly. "I'm sorry."

"Dean," said Sam. "You know I asked you before about if you were gonna be on your game or what. You've just been way too spacey recently. It's not like you to let something like that slide. We just _had _a hex bag in the car, we leave it in someone else's hands for a day, and you forget to check it over?"

"I know, I _know_," Dean said, sounding annoyed at himself. "I've just been so friggin' tired all the time. I get thinking about something and then I kind of lose my train of thought. I picked up the car and I _was _about to check it, but I was looking at the bumper and I was thinking about when we almost ran over... that deer or whatever... and then I just, I just sort of forgot what I was doing." Dean stopped as he saw an all-too-familiar puzzled expression come over Sam's face.

"Oh, hell," Dean said. "You're about to say 'what deer', aren't you?"

"What deer?" said Sam.

"That deer that was lying in the road last year, that we almost hit. Oh, never mind, I don't even want to try to keep track of this memory crap anymore." Dean put his head down in his hands, his forearms propped on the bridge railing.

Sam said, "You and me both." He sighed and added, "Well, at least we had mystery guy looking out for us."

"He's right, you know. We need to be _much_ more careful," said Dean, raising his head. "Especially when we know now somebody's really targeting us, us specifically, with these damn hex bags."

"And that's another thing," said Sam. "These aren't normal hex bags. Wild animals? And fire? Who ever heard of hex bags that work like that? Usually hex bags go straight for the body — you know, make you cough your lungs up, or give you a heart attack, or something."

Dean considered that. "Yeah, usually I think they're just friggin' skeevy, but these last two weren't skeevy exactly, they were more just... good old-fashioned _scary_. That guy, the angel-blade guy, he called them something different, too. What'd he say..."

"Wind-call, and fire-call."

"It sounds like, forces of nature kind of stuff, doesn't it." Dean paused and added, "This isn't your run-of-the-mill witch."

"You're still thinking Castiel?"

"Gotta be, right? We know Castiel's here, we know he's a scary-ass angel, we know people are getting killed by an angel, and now we know there's some freaky nature magic going on here that we haven't seen before." Dean thought a moment. "And we know angels can do thunder and lightning and wind, right? Forces of nature." He looked at Sam. "It's sure starting to look like Castiel is after us. Crowley might have been right."

"Meaning we might have to kill Castiel?"

"Yeah." Dean paused a moment, gazing blankly down at the rushing water again. "Something about that feels wrong, though. Like, _wrong_ wrong. I really wish that guy would have talked to us some more. It was pretty obvious he knows way more than he said."

"At least he gave us the spinny thing."

They both fell silent.

The bridge quivered.

"What is that, the water or something? Or is a truck coming?" said Sam, looking around. But the road was empty in both directions. He looked down into the river.

"That's funny," said Sam. "Look, the river's sort of sloshing from side to side." He pointed to the banks. The river water was splashing far up onto the left bank, and then onto the right bank.

The bridged quivered again. And shook. And shook harder.

"Get off the bridge," barked Dean, already running back toward the Impala. A moment later the bridge began shaking so much they both had trouble staying on their feet.

The Impala was parked at the very end of the bridge. Sam bolted past it, yelling "Forget the car!", but Dean was already jumping into the driver's seat. Sam swore and hopped into the passenger seat next to him. Fortunately Dean had left the keys in the ignition earlier, and it took him only a moment to start the engine and gun the Impala backwards along the shoulder. The car charged backwards, and Sam gasped as he saw part of the bridge disappear, right where the Impala had been.

"The bridge just friggin' collapsed, Dean!"

"Spinny thing! Look at the spinny thing!" yelled Dean, whipping the Impala around in a tight turn. The Impala was lurching awkwardly from side to side, as if all its tires had gone flat. Sam fished the little crucifix out of his pocket. As soon as he held it up it started spinning crazily, almost a blur, counterclockwise.

"There's gotta be something else in the car! Get out of the car!" Sam yelled. Dean braked to a halt and they both jumped out of the car again. But both brothers staggered as soon as they were standing on the pavement outside. It wasn't just the Impala that was lurching from side to side; the _ground _was lurching from side to side. Now that they were farther from the river, they could hear a low, thunderous roar that seemed to be coming from all around. The streetlights were bobbing lazily, like palm trees in a storm, and the trees on the side of the road were swaying back and forth as if in an invisible wind.

"Earthquake," said Dean, his eyes wide.

Sam held the crucifix up again; it was still spinning rapidly. He walked farther away from the car, fighting to keep his balance, as if he were walking on the deck of a boat at sea.

The crucifix kept spinning.

"It's not the car, Dean," he said. "Is it me?" He handed the crucifix to Dean, and backed away, but when Dean held it up it still just kept spinning.

"It's everywhere," said Dean.

Gradually the ground slowed, and stopped. The trees stopped moving, and the streetlights stilled.

The crucifix hanging from Dean's hand slowed its spinning. Sam came closer and they both watched as the crucifix slowed further, and then stopped entirely.

"Was that... an evil earthquake?" asked Sam slowly.

Dean looked up at him. "This just jumped up about ten notches on the scary scale," he said. "Because last time we had evil earthquakes happening, it was the friggin' Apocalypse."

* * *

They got back in the Impala. Sam took the crucifix back and kept his eyes on it nonstop as Dean drove, holding it up in the air and waving it around the car occasionally to check different places inside the car. But it was no longer spinning at all.

They stopped at a small grocery store a quarter-mile away from the bridge, mostly to see if there was any news from the rest of the town, and found the teenaged staff inside chattering excitedly about the earthquake. Apparently there had been little damage and no reports of any serious injuries. In fact, the mood in the grocery store seemed almost festive — the earthquake was clearly the most exciting thing to happen in the last month. The staffers seemed almost delighted to hear about the bridge's partial collapse, and were soon calling their friends eagerly to report the news.

The two cashiers explained to Sam and Dean that small earthquakes were actually quite common in the area, and that most buildings were built to withstand minor quakes.

"That's why nobody was hurt and nothing fell off the shelves here," one cashier explained. "We have these little lips on all the shelves to keep stuff from sliding off. Like in California. But that bridge is older, though."

"Since when are there earthquakes in Wyoming?" asked Dean, puzzled.

Both cashiers turned to give him a pitying you're-not-from-here-are-you sort of look. "Welcome to the Tetons," one of them said pointedly. The other explained, "This whole area's like, a geologic thin spot. There's magma, like, two feet down or something. Hell's basically right underfoot. That's why Yellowstone has all those geysers and hot springs, and we're _right _next to Yellowstone; it's right up the road."

The first cashier put in, "And that's why the Tetons are so sharp and pointy-looking - they're brand new mountains, really. They're growing. They probably grew a couple inches tonight! I heard the whole continental plate is going to rip apart, right here, any second now.".

"Well, not, like, _instantly_," corrected the second cashier, with an educated air. "Just, eventually. And someday the whole Yellowstone caldera's gonna blow sky-high, too. But not right now."

"Everybody always _says _it won't happen right now, but nobody really _knows_, do they?" countered the first cashier. "Nobody has any clue when it'll happen. What if the caldera actually _does _completely blow? This earthquake tonight, this was definitely stronger than usual. It's the third one this summer that we've really felt! It was definitely stronger than the one in August, and August's was stronger than July's. The geologists always say it's just random but you know... if this one brought the bridge down, I sure don't want to be here next month."

"Hold on," said Sam. "You said there were smaller earthquakes in July and August? What were the dates of those, exactly?"

After a bit of arguing the cashiers managed to come up with the dates of the previous two earthquakes: July 10th and August 15th. Sam thanked them, and pulled Dean away by the elbow, saying in a low voice, "Dean, each of those earthquakes was exactly three days after one of the hikers died."

Dean looked disturbed. "Got to be connected."

"Do you think..." Sam hesitated, and then continued. "This is probably nuts, but, do you think Castiel might be trying to blow the Yellowstone caldera? Break the continent apart? Something really major?"

Dean gave a dejected shrug. "Shit, man. I don't know. But we know he's done major-league stuff before. And whatever's he's up to now, this is getting seriously scary. Earthquakes, dude... that's some big-ass nature magic."

They walked out to the Impala. Dean did not immediately start the car, but sat with his hands on the steering wheel, looking dispirited, while Sam checked the little crucifix again. The crucifix was reassuringly still, but Dean still didn't start the car.

"We have to get that guy to talk to us," said Dean, staring at his hands. "We need some outside help on this one. I'm sure that guy knows something useful. I just have this feeling like he could help us. We gotta go talk to him."

"Great plan. Except that he doesn't want to talk to us, and we beat him up, and then we let him get away and now we don't know where he is."

"He didn't seem to want our help," said Dean morosely. "He didn't even want to ride in the Impala. I thought for sure he'd like a ride in the Impala."

"Well, you did just totally smash up his face, you know. I mean, we had good reason to jump him, but we did definitely mess him up." Sam rubbed his chin, thinking. "We've gotta apologize somehow. Maybe if we could find him and give him a peace offering or something?"

Dean looked at him skeptically. "Like what? A nice little card that says, sorry I smashed your face into the ground? Maybe he'd like a box of band-aids with a bow on it?"

Sam seemed to actually be considering this. He said, "You know, a box of band-aids isn't a bad idea. But I was thinking about that bag of food. He said it was his food for the week, remember? Thing is, it was just day-old bread and eggs and stuff. Pretty cheap food, and not that much of it, and it all got ruined and he left it all behind." Sam looked over at Dean, his forehead creased with concern. "Didn't it seem like that the buck-fifty in his pocket is probably all he's got? If that was really all his food for the week..."

"We could get him some more food," said Dean eagerly, sitting up straight. "We're right at the grocery store! Then, home delivery! Whether he likes it or not. And we can be all, hey buddy, we're just checking up to be sure you got through the earthquake okay, here's some food to replace your stuff that we squished, and also here's some band-aids, sorry I smashed your face up, can you help us kill this Godzilla angel."

Sam smiled. "Maybe in slightly different words, but that's pretty much what I was thinking. Think we can track him down?"

"He was walking up the hill. There can't be that many places up there. It's pretty much the outskirts of town, and there's nothing beyond the pass but wilderness."

* * *

The groceries took a bit more time than anticipated. The original plan had been just to replace the food that Angel-Blade Guy, as they'd started calling him, had already had. But they soon found they both wanted to buy better food, and more food, than what Angel-Blade Guy had originally had in his little plastic bag. Dean nearly stuffed their grocery cart full of packages of frozen burritos, till Sam pointed out they didn't even know if Angel-Blade Guy had any freezer space, let alone whether he liked burritos. Dean grudgingly removed most of the packages (grumbling "But I'm sure he'd like burritos") and in the very next aisle Sam found himself piling several jars of honey into the cart, absolutely certain that Angel-Blade Guy must really like honey. "Didn't he seem like a beekeeper type?" said Sam, mystifying both himself and Dean, since neither had ever met a beekeeper in their lives.

After a bit of confusion they managed to get the burritos and the honey down to a manageable level, and then Sam remembered the box-of-bandaids idea, and wanted to add some other first-aid supplies too, so they had to circle back through the store and find some painkillers and gauze and antiseptic cream. Then, on leaving the grocery store, Dean had suddenly become convinced that Angel-Blade Guy would also probably really like some take-out burgers, so they had to go buy two burgers (Dean was convinced that Angel-Blade Guy would want more than one). And after that, they passed a liquor store and both brothers had felt that Angel-Blade Guy probably also needed a bottle of whiskey. Or maybe some beers. There was a short, intense debate about whiskey vs. beer. Dean kept changing his mind about what Angel-Blade Guy might like to drink, ricocheting between "I bet he could pretty much drink a whole liquor store," and "No, wait, I bet he'd be completely buzzed off of just one beer!" Sam finally just rolled his eyes, grabbed a whiskey bottle and a six-pack of a decent local brew, stuck them in Dean's arms and marched him up to the cash register to pay.

They managed to stuff everything except the bottle of whiskey into a single bulging paper grocery bag, twice the size of Angel-Blade Guy's original plastic bag, and they clambered back into the Impala. Sam propped the whiskey bottle between his feet and held the bag in his lap, with one eye still on the little crucifix that he'd been carrying nonstop. Dean turned the Impala back up the road to Teton Pass.

They checked in briefly at the motel. The girl at the front desk reported that the earthquake had been fairly mild up in the hills, and that the only damage to the motel was a few cracked windows. All looked well in their room, and the crucifix didn't spin at all when Sam waved it around their possessions. Satisfied, they got back in the car and turned the car uphill, toward the pass.

The plan, such as it was, was just to drive up and down the few side roads that branched off of the main road before it headed high up into wilderness, looking for a likely place that someone like Angel-Blade Guy — that is, someone not very well off — might call home. The first side road led to to a winding cul-de-sac of large, affluent-looking homes with spectacular views of the valley. "No way Angel Guy lives in any of these," muttered Dean, turning the Impala around. Sam glanced at him - Dean had just switched from "Angel-Blade Guy" to "Angel Guy", but it seemed to fit somehow, so Sam didn't bother to point it out.

They returned to the main road, where Dean turned uphill again. Less than a minute later, they came to a much narrower side road with a little sign posted at the turn-off. The sign read "Rustic Summer Cabins for Rent. By Week or By Month." Just below, another sign had been roughly hammered into place that said "CLOSED FOR SEASON. See You Next Year!"

Dean braked to a halt on the shoulder by the sign, the Impala idling. Sam and Dean looked at the sign, and looked at each other. Dean turned the Impala onto the little road.

Soon they were jostling along a narrow, roughly paved road that was almost completely carpeted in pine needles. The woods were thick here, pines and spruce crowded close around. They began to pass a series of small cabins set back from the road, each in its own little clearing. The cabins were barely visible in the dark — there were no lights on, no windows lit, no cars parked in the little driveways. It was late September, after all, in the high mountains; the pass would soon be snowed in, and tourist season was over. The woods seemed dark and peaceful. Dean checked his watch, and was surprised to find it was still only early evening; it had been just a couple hours since he'd been wrestling with the stranger on the ground, and felt that silver blade right at his heart.

And looked up into those strangely mesmerizing eyes.

Dean shook his head and drove on.

The Impala's headlights made an eerie tunnel of half-lit branches ahead of them. Further ahead, they saw a small glowing square of light. They drove closer, the square of light grew larger, and soon they drew up next to a small cabin that had a single window in the front, glowing faintly with orange light.

"Talk about little house in the woods," Dean said. "This has to be it." He pulled off the road onto a wide patch of pine needles near the cabin, cut the motor and looked at Sam. "Remember. No talking about the case immediately. We're just here to offer him a peace pipe. Gotta ease him into it."

Pinecones crunched underfoot as they got out of the car.

"Dean," said Sam quietly, pointing to a skinny young pine next to the Impala. Some kind of design was carved into its bark. Dean turned his cell phone light on to inspect it.

"Angel-ward," he whispered to Sam. The ward was freshly carved, the cut edges still sharp, sticky resin still oozing out. Dean looked at the next tree over; it had an angel-ward too. Sam dug out his flashlight and shined it around at several other trees. All had freshly cut sigils carved into the bark, mostly angel-wards, along with a few other signs that they didn't recognize.

"They're all warded," whispered Sam. "Whole damn forest is warded."

"Well, at least the guy knows his wards."

A rough voice from the direction of the cabin said, "What are you doing here?"

They both jumped guiltily and looked toward the cabin. The cabin door was open, and the man they'd met earlier was silhouetted in the entrance.

He did not sound pleased, and he did not invite them in.

Dean said cheerily, "Hey, buddy, look at that, we found you. It's just us — Dean, and my brother Sam. Winchester. Hope you don't mind us tracking you down."

Dean walked up to the door, trying his best to look harmless and friendly. He was holding the whiskey bottle, in its brown paper bag, and Sam was just behind him carrying the grocery bag.

The man still did not invite them in. He just stood there, blocking the doorway. Sam and Dean straggled to a halt a few feet away.

"What are you doing here?" the man repeated, his voice hoarse. "Why are you here? You shouldn't be here." There was something rougher, more distressed, in his voice than there had been earlier. He wasn't wearing his leather jacket any more, but just a thin button-down shirt that was flecked with blood. In his left hand was a damp, bloody dishtowel wrapped around some lumps; it seemed he'd been holding some ice cubes to his face, which had at least stopped bleeding but was now showing dramatic bruises that were spreading darkly across his nose, one cheek and his forehead. He was still holding his right arm unnaturally close to his side.

His face was drawn and lined, his mouth tight.

He looked so unhappy to see them, so tense and sad and worried, that Dean entirely forgot what he had been planning to say. Dean hesitated with his mouth half-open for a moment, and then stammered, "Uhh, so, hey, buddy. We thought, uh...we wanted...we...we felt an earthquake, and, uh...we...look, are you okay?"

The man was frowning at him. "I'm fine," he said, very unconvincingly, for he looked as if he were in pain. Though what kind of pain, Dean couldn't have said.

There was an awkward pause.

Sam stepped forward and said smoothly, "We also realized we ruined your food. So we wanted to replace it. Here, we got this for you."

Sam held out the grocery bag. The man looked at it blankly.

"I can't accept anything from you," he finally said, looking up at both of them. "You shouldn't even be here."

"Please take it," said Sam. "We know it's not much, but, we felt kind of bad. We know we were a little rough on you. Will you let us make it up to you?"

Another strange pause.

"Look, buddy, will you just friggin' take the friggin' food?" blurted Dean. "And not make us just stand here feeling like hell? And stop looking at us with those damn puppy eyes. I mean — dammit — take the bag."

"_Dean_," Sam chided him. Dean could only give an embarrassed shrug to Sam. The stranger looked at Dean, wide-eyed.

"Puppy...eyes?" he said, clearly confused. "What is that? Is that bad?"

"My apologies," broke in Sam, darting an aggrieved look at Dean. "My brother's um, not really himself lately. He's had some trouble sleeping."

"Just take the bag," pleaded Dean.

"All right," said the man. "All right." He started to reach out with his right hand to take the bag, but immediately checked himself — it seemed it was painful to reach with that arm. He had to switch the bloody towel from his left to his right hand, in order to take the bag with his left hand.

The man said, looking down at the bag, "That was, unnecessary, but, um, kind of you. Thank you, but, uh —" Now he seemed bewildered. "Really, though, I'm serious, you shouldn't have come h—"

"So, buddy, are you a hunter or what?" interrupted Dean. "You said you're not, but I was wondering, because you have that angel-blade, and also the way you fight, though it's weird you have an angel-blade but no gun, but, you're obviously tracking angels, and you've got wards all over the trees, and, where did you learn about that spinning cross thing? So anyway we think there's some angels around here frying people's brains up and we don't really know what we're up against. We think they're in Death Canyon but we couldn't get close. Also they were whipped, the people I mean, tied up and whipped and who ever heard of angels doing that? And three days later there's always an earthquake, there was just one now, what the hell does that mean, that's bad news, right? I'm kind of scared. Plus those hex bags are so strange and what is a wind-call anyway, what did you mean by that? Why don't you want to talk to us? Have you ever heard of people's brains getting cooked like that? Can you, um, can you help us? Will you talk to us?" He paused a split second, and added forlornly, "Talk to me?"

"Dean. What the hell," said Sam into the silence that followed. Dean looked over at Sam with an expression of helpless confusion.

The man swung his door wide open and said "You'd better come inside."


	7. Fire And Wings

_Author's Note: Here is my Christmas present to you: one more chapter written during my last week in New Zealand, posted from the airport as I am heading out over the Pacific on Christmas Eve. If anybody would like to give me a present back, please send me a review! I had no idea what those reviews feel like to a new fic writer - each one seems like such a beam of warm sunlight for a little baby plant. Tell me what you like, tell me what you'd change, tell me what you want... or just say hi. :) many thanks!_

_PS - This one was difficult - they just kept wanting to talk to each other and would have talked all night in that little cabin if I hadn't finally waded in and shut them up._

* * *

The "Angel Guy" ushered Sam and Dean into his little cabin, backing carefully out of their way as they walked in.

The cabin was quite small. It consisted of a single room, some twenty by twenty feet, with a tiny bathroom in one corner, a stone fireplace against the far wall, and wooden rafters overhead.

The man put the grocery bag on a linoleum counter that ran along the left-hand wall, setting his bloody towel in an old enamel sink. He looked into the grocery bag and gave a little huff that was almost a laugh. Reaching in, he pulled out the two take-out burgers, still in their wrappings, a box of burritos, and a jar of honey. He laid these out in a little row and looked at them for a moment.

"Interesting," he said very softly, almost talking to himself.

Dean said, "We thought you might like those — did we guess right? And also we got you this." He pulled the bottle of whiskey out of its bag and held it out, saying, "Maybe we could share a drink?"

The man turned and glanced at the bottle. He looked at Dean, and looked at Sam, his gaze lingering on each of their faces in turn. He said, "All right. But just this once. You have to understand, we really shouldn't be talking at all."

He turned back to the counter to pick up a chipped mug. Glancing at Dean and Sam apologetically, he said "We'll have to share. I just have one mug." He began to wash out the mug in the sink, and Sam and Dean took a moment to look around the cabin.

There seemed to be very little in the cabin; it was almost just a plain wooden box. The only real furniture was a tiny wooden table that was set in the exact center of the room, a few yards away from the hearth, with a wooden crate pulled up to it that apparently served as a chair. The table was covered with maps, a stack of local newspapers (the old-fashioned print kind) and a scattering of little hand-written notes. Dean tried to steal an unobtrusive look at the notes and found that they were all written in some scrolly-looking elegant handwriting that he couldn't read, something that looked like a cross between Arabic and hieroglyphics.

Against the left wall of the cabin was the old sink and the worn linoleum countertop, where the man was now drying the mug. There was a mini-fridge tucked under the counter. There was no stove; there wasn't even a microwave. Instead, the countertop held just an ancient electric hot-plate, along with a grand total of two pans: a small, scarred frying pan, and a tippy-looking pot with an odd handle that seemed to have been made out of a coathanger. Laid out tidily on a dishtowel were a wooden stirring spoon, a spatula, a single plate, a single bowl, and a few pieces of mismatched silverware lined up in an orderly row.

A wooden shelf ran along the right-hand wall, bearing a small assortment of clothing in neat little stacks, along with a tiny mirror, a razor and some toiletries, a few paperback books, and a white cardboard shoebox. There was a round furry lump nestled into the clothes that turned out to be a cat that was looking at them warily. A peg by the shelf held the familiar leather jacket, and a few more crates were lined up underneath, holding bundles of firewood and kindling, sorted out by size. There was a fire in the fireplace, though it seemed to be doing remarkably little to keep off the evening chill. The only other light came from a ridiculously faint light bulb dangling from a rafter overhead.

There was only one other thing in the cabin: a pile of rough wool blankets in front of the hearth, arranged in a tidy rectangle, perhaps four feet long by three feet wide. Dean mistook it at first for a pet bed, and was thinking _That's kind of big for just a cat_, before he realized that there was no other bed in the cabin. He caught Sam's eye silently and nodded at the little heap of blankets; Sam looked at it blankly for a moment and then his brow furrowed in dismay.

"So, buddy," said Dean. "You're not really a big fan of furniture, huh?"

The man said, drying the mug on a corner of the dishtowel, "I don't need much. The owners are planning to sell this cabin, and they removed most of the furniture two months ago. They were going to close it up completely for the winter, but I convinced them to rent it to me at a very low price, really just the cost of the electricity and the water. It's a good arrangement — I don't need to spend as much time earning money, so I have more time for... " He stopped short, and ended lamely, "...other things."

"Other things like hunting angels?" said Dean.

The man straightened out the dishtowel and set the mug on the counter. He turned his head to look over his shoulder at Dean, and said "I have to make something clear. I can't talk to you very much." He paused, and added, "I should have told you both to leave."

"Oh. Okay," said Dean, feeling a bit shot down.

The man gave him a faint smile. "It's... not by choice. It's simply not safe."

He turned back to the whiskey bottle and broke the seal on the cap, twisting it hard with his right hand. Though this was only a very minor motion, he winced as he did it, gritting his teeth and stiffening for a moment, barely breathing. He took a slow, shallow breath and continued unscrewing the cap. Sam shot Dean a glance and mouthed the words "Cracked rib," gesturing to his own ribcage to make his point clear. Dean nodded, wincing at the memory of how hard he'd slammed the Impala door onto the stranger's side.

"Hey," said Sam, in his best Gentle Sam voice, "Are you okay there?"

"I'm fine," the man said tersely.

"There's some painkillers and bandages and stuff in the bag. We could fix you up a bit. Tape up your ribs maybe?"

"I'm _fine_," the man repeated. He turned to look at Sam for a moment, and added, more gently, "Thank you for the supplies. That was... kind. Very kind. I will use them later." He turned his attention back to the whiskey bottle.

Sam pressed, "If you won't let us help, can I at least ask your name? We still don't even know who you are."

The man looked at Sam again.

He did not answer; he just turned back to the bottle and started pouring a good-sized slug of whiskey into the mug.

Sam blinked. His shoulders dropped a little.

"C'mon, buddy," said Dean. "You know our names, and we don't know yours. You got us kind of at a disadvantage here."

The man re-capped the bottle slowly, giving Dean an unnaturally long and steady look out of the corner of his eye. "I don't want to tell you my name," he said at last. "And I don't want to lie to you either." He turned and held the mug out toward Dean. "So call me whatever you want."

"We can't just keep calling you 'buddy'," Dean objected.

The man shrugged, still holding out the mug.

"Well...okay, I guess," said Dean reluctantly, taking the mug and leaning on the little table. "Buddy it is."

A smile tugged at the corner of the man's mouth. "That means a friend, doesn't it?"

Dean nodded, slugging back a swallow and handing the mug to Sam. "Yep. Unless you've got a better suggestion."

"It'll do."

"So, um, 'Buddy.' Are you actually a hunter or what?" asked Dean.

"Buddy", or whoever he was, shook his head. "No. I tried that a few times. I wasn't very good at it." Sam took a swallow and held the mug out to him, and Buddy took the mug, saying, "To be honest I was quite bad at it. One of many things I'm bad at," He glanced down at the whiskey. "It's funny... You can go through a whole life, quite a long life, thinking you're doing well, that you're competent, that you're... good. " He took a swallow of the whiskey, and said, his voice perfectly calm, "And then you discover you actually completely suck at absolutely everything." He handed the mug to Dean, and added, "It's an adjustment. Anyway. I'm no hunter. And I don't have any useful skills anymore. I just do what I can."

The "anymore" caught Dean's attention, but he let it pass. He just said, "Plenty of skill with a blade, seemed to me."

Buddy gave a short laugh. "I've had some experience with that, over the years, yes. A blade alone doesn't get you very far, though."

"Look, seems to me you're obviously sort of a hunter even if you don't call yourself one. You're after the bad guys, right? Monsters, demons, angels?" said Dean.

Buddy grimaced. "I still hate to hear angels on that list. But, yes."

Sam put in, "Yeah, it was kind of a wakeup call for all of us to find out what dicks they are."

The mug had come round to Buddy again. He gazed down into the whiskey silently.

Dean said, "If I can cut to the chase, what the hell is going on in this valley? Three hikers dead now and it looks like their brains are getting fried. Fried up completely into little black lumps. And they're all beaten and it looks like they've been whipped. Then, each time, three days later there's an earthquake."

Sam added, "Also the hex bags seem really weird."

At the mention of the hex bags, Buddy looked up, frowning. "Your car was attacked by animals, you said?"

Sam nodded. "A whole set of them. Like an animal army. Elk, bear and little animals too, out at Death Canyon. They were all just going after the bag. Not going after us exactly — going after the bag. I've never seen a hex bag do that."

"Wild-call," murmured Buddy, looking down into the whiskey again.

"What?" said Dean.

"Wild-call," he repeated, more clearly. "A construction that calls the anger of wild animals to itself. There's a category of magical items that do that sort of thing — calling upon the destructive power of some aspect of nature. Basically, they focus the power of nature onto a specific point. The fire-call does the same thing, but with fire."

It didn't occur to either Sam or Dean to ask how he knew this.

"What about the one you found in our room?" asked Sam.

Buddy was silent a moment. He raised the mug to his mouth and took a sip of the whiskey. "That one was a wind-call."

"Which means what exactly?" asked Dean.

"Likely your motel would have been destroyed by a tornado, or some kind of windstorm. Something along those lines."

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance. Buddy passed the mug on to Dean, and leaned back against the countertop with a faint grimace, his left arm cradling the right.

"What did you do with it?" asked Sam.

"I crushed it with rocks and buried the pieces," said Buddy, as if this were the obvious thing to do. He saw their puzzled looks and explained further, "The best thing to do with those sorts of items is usually to fragment them into some opposing natural force. Douse a fire-call in water, crush a wind-call in rocks and earth, that sort of thing. To be honest, though, I haven't seen any of these things in a very long time, and I wasn't entirely sure what to do. But it seems to have worked."

"It sounds like it would take a lot of power to make one of those," said Dean.

Buddy looked at him and gave one slow, silent nod.

The slow nod, and that steady gaze, threatened to pull Dean into the same strange vortex of deja-vu that he'd experienced earlier in the parking lot. Dean closed his eyes for a second, trying to stay focused. He took a breath, opened his eyes and said, "The word on the street is there's something big going down here. There's..." He glanced at Sam. "There's a major player here, we think. Somebody pretty strong."

Buddy nodded again. He said, "The reason I invited you in was to tell you that you both need to leave. Immediately. You have to leave this town. "

Dean and Sam exchanged a "not likely" look. Buddy looked back and forth between them.

He said slowly, "I see I have to tell you a bit more, if just to convince you to leave." He paused, gathering his thoughts. Sam had passed him the mug again and he gripped it in both hands, looking over at the fire. He thought a moment longer, raised his eyes to Dean's and said, "I came here two months ago. I overheard some things about this area, some things that made me concerned, and I made my way here to see if I could figure out what was going on. I believe there are two angels here, along with at least two demons. They are working together, which is ... disturbing. They are based primarily in Death Canyon, where you were attacked. But I have to stay out of their way — I can't risk the angels finding out I'm here — and I haven't been able to get close enough to figure out very much."

He looked back and forth between Sam and Dean, and went on, "But I do know this much: there is something very strange here. A very strong entity. Something very powerful. I don't know yet what it is. It's something, or somebody, that even the angels are frightened of."

"Castiel?" said Dean.

Buddy flinched and nearly dropped the mug. He stared at Dean, his eyes wide.

"You've heard the name, then?" guessed Dean. "If that's your big surprise, we already know about him. And we know he's somewhere right around here. This super baddie you're talking about, it's Castiel, right?"

Buddy stared at him for a long moment, and then turned his back and busied himself refilling the mug. He took a swig of whiskey while his back was turned, then slowly turned to face Dean.

"What do you know of Castiel?" he said, looking closely at Dean's face.

"Well... not much. We haven't had the pleasure of meeting him in person," said Dean.

Buddy's mouth twitched.

Sam expanded, "Near as we can tell he's an angel who's been setting himself up as kind of the new Lucifer. He seems to have been a pretty serious warrior back in the old days — one of the really scary angels who went around smiting people right and left. Then he rebelled a few years ago, fell from Heaven, then tried to take over Heaven, killed a ton of people, wiped out half the angels too, and now apparently he's the one who slammed the pearly gates and exiled all the angels."

Buddy had gone completely still, holding the mug, staring at the floor.

Dean concluded, "So basically, a murderous tyrant with delusions of grandeur and an absolutely unholy body count."

Buddy closed his eyes.

"It does sound rather bad when you sum it up like that," he said softly, his eyes still closed.

"We've been told we should kill the bastard if we ever get a chance," said Dean.

Buddy opened his eyes and looked narrowly at Dean. "Who told you you should kill Castiel?"

"Well..." Dean said, glancing at Sam. Sam nodded — they seemed to be agreed that they were going to trust this guy with everything — and Dean said, "Actually it was a demon we kind of know. By the name of Crowley. Not exactly our most trusted source, but sometimes he does have good info."

Buddy took a long swallow of the whiskey.

"I'm pretty sure that was his idea of a joke," he said, still holding the mug. "Castiel is no threat to you."

"That's not what we've been hearing," said Dean.

"Trust me on this. Castiel is not your enemy."

"I don't know," said Dean, "He's supposed to be pretty terrifying — and we _know_ he's here. If you've found somebody powerful around here it really seems like it might be Castiel, since—"

"Castiel's nothing," interrupted Buddy, his low voice darkening even further, almost to a growl. "He's broken. He's useless. He's just a fool, and an idiot, and that's all he's ever been." Dean and Sam were both jolted by his harsh tone, and they stared at him. Buddy sighed, and went on, "You're thinking he's a villain. An enemy. He's not, he's just, a, a ... How do I put this. A failure. I think the word you'd use is, loser? He's not worth your time."

Dean gave a little laugh. "So, I get the feeling you don't think much of him."

"Put it this way. If anybody's going to kill Castiel it'll be me," said Buddy, unmistakable bitterness in his voice. He took another swig of the whiskey, and then looked down at the mug in some surprise, as if he'd forgotten he was holding it. He sighed and handed it to Dean.

He said, "Forget about Castiel. The thing I've been sensing in this valley is something else entirely. It is not an angel. It is something beyond angels. I hesitate to even say this, but I think it is something older than angels."

"Are we talking... leviathan?" suggested Sam.

Buddy shook his head emphatically. "It is not a leviathan. I would know if it were. Also, leviathans take pleasure in killing; this is something that kills just as a matter of course, without any malice really, without even thinking about it. Something naturally destructive. Like an earthquake — like a tornado." He drew a slow, careful breath, adjusted his arm around his side again, and continued. "As I said, I haven't been able to get close enough to see it exactly. The best I've been able to do is try to keep people out of that canyon on the nights when I know they're doing something. But a few have gotten through. The last hiker, that girl..." His mouth twisted, and he sighed. "I tried to stop her from taking that trail. I knew they were looking for someone to take, that day. I tried to stop her. But she wouldn't listen to me."

He looked down at the ground. "I think she just thought I was strange," he said.

"Can't imagine why," said Dean, casting a look around the cabin. He'd meant it as a joke, trying to lighten the mood, but Buddy narrowed his eyes at him.

"The point is," said Buddy, a bit coldly, "that there's an extremely dangerous entity here that is very strong and completely unpredictable, and it is being served by two angels and two demons who are aware of your presence and who are trying to kill you. All of which means, you should leave. Both of you."

"Are you gonna leave?" said Dean pointedly.

Buddy's eyes flickered away. "Well ... no," he confessed.

"You're gonna keep trying to help those hikers, aren't you?" Dean studied Buddy's face a bit, noticed the way Buddy was evading his gaze, and added, "You're going to keep trying to do something to help, even if it _kills_ you. Right?"

Buddy brushed a hand over his eyes, and felt absently at the bruised scrape across his cheek.

"Yes, but, it doesn't matter if I—" He stopped. "That doesn't matter. You—"

"Wait. It doesn't matter if you what? Doesn't matter if you get hurt? Doesn't matter if you die?" said Dean. He felt a slow anger start to burn in his gut at the thought of Buddy out there in the woods, working alone, risking his life alone. With only his little angel-blade and no backup at all. "So you get to risk yourself and we don't?"

"I don't _matter_," said Buddy, irritated. "You _do_. _Both_ of you do. I'm not important. You _are_. Therefore you should both leave, and I should stay."

"Bullcrap," said Dean. "You matter too. You matter just as much." He felt certain about this. "Maybe more."

"No, I don't. You don't understand."

"Then explain it."

"I can't _tell_ you any more," snapped Buddy, frustrated.

"Why not?"

Buddy took a step closer, staring Dean right in the eyes, and said, pronouncing each word slowly, "I _told _you. It's. Not. Safe." Sam watched this exchange unfold, fascinated, from a few feet away.

Dean, pinned by that stare, with Buddy's eyes blazing right at him, felt a ghostly shiver run over his skin. He said, "So what if it's not safe? When have we ever done anything the safe way?"

"When have you ever done anything the _intelligent _way?" replied Buddy acidly, taking another half step closer. He was barely a foot away now, crowding Dean closely, still staring right at him, his head cocked a bit to the side, a puzzled frown coming over his bruised face as he said, "Why won't you _listen_ to me?"

"Why _should_ I listen to you when you won't tell me anything?" Dean shot back. He felt weirdly elated, for the whole exchange, tense as it was, felt almost like a game. As if he were dancing with an old partner, or wrestling with a childhood friend that he hadn't seen in years.

Buddy abruptly broke eye contact and turned away. He turned to the table, saying, "Dean. Have you not understood how these people died? How they suffered?" He leaned over and reached out with his right hand to grab some papers to show Dean. He staggered a bit as he did this, flinched, gave a sharp gasp, and then curled his right arm around his side and leaned heavily onto the table with his left hand. He held his breath for moment, standing very still, his head down, his left hand braced on the table.

"Vegas money says you've got at least one cracked rib there," said Dean, "and that's my fault and I'm truly sorry, but just try and tell me why you should stay here and fight when you're injured and on your own, when we're perfectly healthy and there's two of us."

Sam moved closer and put a hand on Buddy's shoulder. Buddy was still hunched over, breathing shallowly. Sam said, "I know my brother can be pretty annoying, but he's right about at least one thing: you _are_ hurt. Won't you let us take a look? Or at least let us take you to the hospital. You shouldn't even be walking around like that."

"And you sure shouldn't be all on your own here in this empty cabin in the middle of nowhere," said Dean.

"I'm fine," said Buddy, still breathing a bit shallowly, his head down. "It is only a minor injury. I appreciate your concern, but I can take care of myself." He gestured around the cabin briefly, not raising his head. "I have everything I need here. I've been doing very well on my own."

"Oh yeah, looks like you got everything here set up beautifully," said Dean, glancing around the barren cabin. "Livin' the high life here. Bet the ladies dig it. I can't imagine why that girl thought you were a little strange."

Dean rolled his eyes at Sam over Buddy's head, thinking Buddy wouldn't see, but a moment later he realized he'd misjudged. For Buddy had turned his head just enough to catch Dean's expression out of the corner of his eyes. "You're mocking me," Buddy said, straightening up slowly, studying Dean's face. He sounded as if something that had long puzzled him was suddenly making sense. "You're mocking me. You do that rather often, don't you. I can see it now."

Dean said, flustered, "No, that's not what I — I'm not — I wouldn't... I was just..."

Sam broke in, "My brother's really kind of an idiot. You've got to ignore him about stuff like that, it's just he's such a moron—"

Buddy interrupted, saying directly to Dean, "I know I must seem a bit strange. Well, more than a bit. I already know that. I've known it for years. But, you must understand — this is not my home country. It truly isn't. This is not even my mother tongue. I have been living here, really living here, for only a year, and I have had to do this alone." He took a breath. "I know I get things wrong. I know that people laugh behind my back - well, sometimes to my face — but I have had to figure everything out by myself." He fell silent a moment and looked back and forth between Sam and Dean. They were both too startled to say anything. Buddy took one step closer to Dean. It was an uneven, slightly wobbly step, and Dean realized that Buddy was slightly drunk, just from those few swallows of whiskey. Just a little drunk; not falling-down drunk; but just drunk enough, it seemed, to talk.

Buddy went on, the words spilling out of him, the barriers down. "When I arrived in this land, I had nothing. I knew nothing. I didn't know how to earn money, or how money even worked, or how to find shelter, where to sleep, how to get food. Nothing. I still didn't even understand half of what people said. There are so many idioms, Dean, so many references to things I've never seen... it's so very... it's _so confusing_; you have _no_ idea, you truly can have no idea. And you — my — I had to — you — you —" He was almost stuttering now, and had to abandon that sentence entirely and start a new one, which was: "My friends didn't help me." He stopped for a moment, still gazing at Dean. "I was frightened," he said.

He paused. The only sound was the crackling of the fire.

Then Buddy said "But I survived," and he smiled, a real smile, his eyes crinkling, and it seemed like the sun coming out. He said, "Would you look at how much I've learned? Will you look?" He gestured around the cabin again. "See, now I have a place to sleep that is all my own. All my own. _Nobody_ can kick me out." A sharp glance at Dean here. "I have learned to do three different kinds of jobs now and I've earned some money. Look, I have these blankets to sleep in now. I bought them myself, with money that I earned." He was walking around the cabin now, pointing out his absurdly tiny set of possessions one at a time, with obvious pride. "I bought this plate and this bowl at a little store in the town. I found that pot. It was broken, but I figured out how to fix the handle. I learned how to chop wood and how to build a fire. See," — he had arrived at the shelf with the mirror and the little stack of clothing — "I keep myself clean, I have three changes of clothes now and I keep them clean too. Everything's clean and I keep myself fed. This little cat," He had stopped at the cat. The cat gave him a slow blink, squinting its eyes in friendly welcome, and Buddy rested his hand briefly on its head. "I took her in. She was lost too. I took her in, I take care of her and I feed her. I can feed us both." He turned to look at Dean. "I did all this on my own. And I never lied or cheated or stole. I never took anything from anybody. I did it myself."

He stopped, still looking at Dean, his eyes wide and hopeful, proud and pleading.

A long silence stretched out.

Dean wanted to sink through the ground.

Dean wanted to hide his face with his hands. He wanted to say to Buddy, _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't understand, I didn't get it, I didn't know_. But his throat had closed up and he couldn't say anything at all.

Buddy looked around the room again. His shoulders dropped, and he said, with a little laugh, "I suppose it must not look like much to either of you." There was no resentment or anger in his voice; just acceptance.

Dean opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He looked down at the floor.

"You should be proud," said Sam. Buddy gave him a doubtful glance, but Sam repeated, "You should be really proud. I mean it. That sounds... honestly that sounds horrible. Dean and I, we know some tricks for getting by, but, our dad taught us a lot. And we've always had each other for backup, always. It can't be easy trying to make your way on your own. Especially if you're not even from here."

Dean had still not said a word, and was scowling furiously at the floor. Something in particular was nagging at him now, something that Buddy said earlier. He realized what it was and said, "Why didn't your friends help you?"

Buddy's eyes flickered away. "They... couldn't."

"They knew you were in trouble and they didn't help?" said Sam.

"It's not... they didn't... I don't think they..." Buddy trailed off, standing stock-still, his head down, his arms wrapped around himself. Then he said, very slowly, very softly, as if trying to grasp a bewildering fact, "They have chosen to forget about me."

"Shitty friends if you ask me," said Sam.

"No, they're not... shitty," objected Buddy, stumbling over the word as if he'd never said it before. He lifted his head to look at Sam. "They're not. It's... complicated. What it comes down to I think, is..." He drew a breath. "I think I am a bad friend," he said, shifting his gaze to Dean. "I think it must be one of the things I'm just very bad at. I was a bad friend. I let them down. I made mistakes. Awful mistakes. So..." He looked at them both, his gaze lingering on Dean's. "I think they must have realized they were better off without me."

"We all make mistakes. Friends should forgive each other," said Dean firmly. He had been feeling nearly nauseous at Buddy's story, thinking over and over, _His friends screwed up. They messed up. They lost something valuable._

"But what if they really _are_ better off without me?" asked Buddy.

The fire gave a sharp _crack_, a pocket of resin flaming up. Buddy flinched and looked around, as if waking up. He ran one hand through his hair and said, "Forgive me. I... I am wasting your time with... inconsequential matters." He wrapped his right arm around his side again, and said, frowning, "I really intended just to talk about the case. I seem to be talking much more than usual. My apologies. "

"Yeah, well, whiskey will do that to you," said Dean. "Especially if you're not used to it."

Buddy gave him a grave look. "Oh," he said. "Oh, I see. I'm drunk. Is... is whiskey stronger than beer?"

Sam and Dean both had to choke back a laugh. "Yes, Buddy," said Dean, trying to keep a straight face. "Whiskey is stronger than beer."

Buddy frowned. "I wish I had known that," he muttered. "I've talked far too much." He moved over to the table, making an obvious effort to return his attention to the case. He selected one of the newspapers from the table and handed it to Dean. It was the article with the picture of the young brunette who'd died a few days earlier, the one whose body they'd examined in the morgue. Buddy said, "This girl took two full days to die, Dean."

"That's not gonna scare us away, Bud," said Dean. "We've been through worse."

Buddy got a stubborn look in his eyes as if he were gearing up for a lecture. He turned to face Dean, unconsciously putting the fire at his back so that he could see Dean's face more clearly. He reached out and put his left hand on Dean's right shoulder and said, "Dean, you are seriously underestimating the danger here. These earthquakes—"

That was all Dean heard. The moment Buddy had set his hand on Dean's shoulder, Dean felt an electric shock go from his shoulder straight to his heart. That shiver stole over his skin again, that odd half-trance, as he looked into those serious blue eyes, that piercing gaze. Buddy's ruffled hair was outlined against the crackling fire, and Buddy was saying... something... something about leaving, about escaping, about getting away; Buddy was clasping his shoulder; the fire behind him seemed to roar. It seemed much huger suddenly, a fire the size of the whole world, all around them. Something bloomed in Dean's mind; a door opened, and then Dean was somewhere else entirely, somewhere laced with fire and agony and terror.

Trapped, desperate, helpless. Praying for salvation. _Please, help me..._

He felt panic for a moment, but then felt that hand tighten on his shoulder, blessedly cool, reassuring, holding him firmly, and Dean knew he was saved.

Everything flew into fragments. He heard that distant voice, Buddy's voice, that unmistakable hoarse low growl of a voice, but it seemed to be coming from millions of miles away. It was saying:

_I'm the one who gripped you tight_

A shower of silver sparks.

Blue eyes, very close, staring straight into his soul.

_You should show me some respect._

Black wings, raising unevenly. Ragged, massive. Terrifying. Amazing. A roar of thunder.

"Dean? Dean!"

Dean jerked back to reality. He seemed to have zoned out somehow; he found himself seated on one of the crates, his head down between his knees, his vision swimming. He had a splitting headache. Sam was crouched beside him, one hand tight on Dean's left arm and the other hand supporting his head. Buddy had disappeared from Dean's field of view and seemed to be standing just behind his right side now, bracing him from behind. Sam was saying "Dean? What is it? Can you hear me? What's wrong? Dean?"

Dean began to gather his thoughts, and he sat up a bit straighter. He craned his head around to look at Buddy. Buddy immediately let go of Dean and backed away slightly. He looked completely sober now, and very worried, and he had one hand slightly raised in an odd gesture, two fingers held up together. Dean looked at his hand, puzzled. The gesture seemed ever-so-faintly familiar. Buddy saw his glance, and looked down at his own hand in surprise as if he hadn't realized what he was doing. He dropped his hand to his side and backed away further, nearly to the opposite wall of the cabin, till he was standing in shadow.

"I'm sorry," Buddy said. "We've talked too long. I kept you here too long. I'm sorry. I misjudged. You need to leave now."

"Dean, what the hell was that? You okay?" said Sam.

"Yeah. Just tired." Dean said. He stood up, shaking off Sam's hands, and said to Buddy, "Sorry, I've just been really tired. Not sleeping well, like Sam said. It's just, some blood sugar thing or something. Just got dizzy."

"You must leave now," said Buddy again. "I'm very sorry." He walked to the door, skirting around Dean as if trying to keep as far away from him as he could get, and held the door open. "Make him get to bed," he said to Sam, as Sam guided Dean out the door. "Give him sleep medication, and headache medication too, and make sure he takes both." Sam nodded.

Dean felt awfully embarrassed, and was relieved to find that he was rapidly feeling much more normal as Sam steered him out to the Impala. Sam fished the keys out of Dean's pocket and chivvied Dean around to the passenger side of the car.

"I can drive just fine, Sam—"

"Shut up and get in the car, Dean."

Sam stuffed him in the passenger seat and shut his door. Dean rolled down the window and craned around to look at Buddy, who was hanging back at the door of his cabin. "Hey, I'm sorry," said Dean. "I've just been really tired, that's all it is. Haven't gotten much sleep recently."

"You will leave this town now?" Buddy said. "Return to your home?"

"Not likely," said Dean. "We don't scare easy."

Buddy sighed. "I was afraid you'd say that."

Sam started the engine. Buddy walked a few steps closer to Dean's side of the car, still staying a few yards away as if afraid to come closer. Dean looked at him; the shadows from the moonlight made Buddy's face hard to read, and Dean could only make out the dark bruises on his face, and the outline of his ruffled dark hair.

Buddy said, "If you will not leave, especially in the state you seem to be in, you must be extremely careful. Will you promise me you will be careful?"

"I promise," said Dean.

"More careful than you usually are," insisted Buddy.

Dean scowled at him, and Buddy raised an eyebrow back.

"You know what would be much more careful," said Dean brightly, "is if we had some more backup. Somebody else. Like, a third person. How about you work this case with us?"

Buddy hesitated and shook his head. "I can't," he said reluctantly.

"I just have this feeling like we might work well together."

Buddy shook his head again. "It's just not safe."

"Broken record, C— ... Buddy," said Dean, almost accidentally saying an entirely different name, and not noticing at all what he'd nearly said. "You're not really making any sense. We'll check up on you later, okay?"

Buddy had gone very still. He didn't argue further, but just stepped back into the shadows, as Sam backed out of the driveway.

As Sam drove down the road, Dean twisted around to look through the rear window, and he saw that Buddy had walked out into the road to watch them drive away. Buddy was just a dark shape in the silver moonlight, looking very small in the empty road, the black forest looming all around him, and Dean felt a pain in the pit of his stomach. Sam seemed to be driving quite slowly, extremely slowly, and he kept glancing in the rearview mirror too, both of them looking at the little figure standing alone in the darkness watching them drive away.


	8. The Heat Below

_A/N - This whole thing is getting longer than I planned. My deepest apologies._

* * *

"All I'm saying is, would it kill you to take a few days off?"

It was the morning after Dean's "dizzy spell". As soon as they'd gotten back to the Teton Pass Motel the previous night, Dean had (grumpily) allowed Sam to make him chug down some only-slightly-illegal sleep meds, along with a good-sized dose of painkillers to fight off the nagging headache. He'd actually really conked out for once, and had slept through the night for the first time in weeks. Whatever dreams he might have had seemed to have been buried by the sleep meds, and Dean had woken feeling pretty well-rested, for a change. He'd convinced Sam to head to the Silver Dollar Saloon for breakfast, and he was now contentedly working his way through a stack of pancakes.

Or rather, he _would_ have been contented, if Sam hadn't been sitting right across the table glaring at him.

"Oh, c'mon, Sam," said Dean. "You said yourself I was only out for like ten seconds or something. And I didn't even go all the way down. I was just dizzy."

"So you normally say 'Please help me' over and over when you get dizzy?"

"No fair, Sam. I don't know what I said."

"Well, I do, and honestly, Dean, it was kind of alarming. You're lucky Buddy caught you, you know, or you would've probably given yourself a damn concussion. You were definitely on your way down."

"I never get concussions, you know that. Just naturally hard-headed." Dean grinned at Sam and took a sip of coffee.

"Just naturally bone-headed, you mean," said Sam, rolling his eyes.

Dean sighed. "It was _ten seconds_, Sam."

"Dean. You know damn well that ten seconds of a dizzy spell is ten seconds too long if you're in the middle of a hunt. We need to be in _full_ gear for this one. I think Buddy's right — I think we ought to head home and let you rest up. You've been looking ragged for weeks."

"No _way _are we leaving, Sam," said Dean. "You know we gotta help Buddy on this one. We cannot let him keep going out there alone."

Sam opened his mouth to say something. Then he hesitated, closed his mouth, leaned back against his seat and folded his arms. Dean waited.

A few moments passed and Sam still had no comeback.

Sam finally muttered "Dammit."

"Got you there, didn't I?" said Dean with a grin.

"I hate to admit it, but yeah," said Sam. "You're right, we can't let Buddy keep trying to cover this one on his own. Especially since, I don't know, it just seems like we oughta be looking out for him, you know?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah. I had the same feeling."

Sam thought a moment. "Okay. New plan. I go out with Buddy, and you stay at the motel and rest."

"No way. You're not sidelining me on this one."

"Dammit, Dean. How come when I was the one having my Hell flashbacks and all, you were_ all over me_ about taking some time off?" Sam said.

Dean glanced down at the pancakes, shifting in his seat. He cut a forkful of pancakes off the edge of the pancake stack. But then, instead of picking them up with the fork, he just cut the pancake pieces into smaller pieces, as if he'd suddenly forgotten how to eat them.

Sam peered at him. "Wait, what?" he said. "What'd I say? What?"

"Nothin'," said Dean, his gaze sliding to the floor, to the pancakes, anywhere but Sam. He cut up another little wad of pancakes.

Sam was leaning forward now, both hands on the edge of the table, studying him with a pretty good imitation of the relentless Buddy stare. "Oh my god," said Sam. "It was a Hell flashback, wasn't it? Wasn't it?"

"No?" said Dean weakly, meeting Sam's eyes for a nanosecond.

"It was, it was! Dean. You haven't had those in _years_. Why do you think they've come back? What do you think triggered it? What was it about? Have you had any others? Do you remember any details?"

"Stop right there," said Dean, putting a hand up right in Sam's face. "Stop. I _really_ don't want to talk about it."

"We have to. You know we have to. The freaky dreams and now this?" Sam looked at Dean again, this time noting the mulish look in Dean's eyes. Sam took a breath and said. "Dean. You know I don't usually push if you really don't want to talk about something. But this is important. I just know it is, and you know it too. Do you remember _anything_ you can tell me?"

Truth was, the last thing Dean wanted to do was tell anybody, even Sam, about how terrified he'd felt during that awful ten seconds. Truth was... he'd felt terrified out of his mind. Back in Hell, helpless, both torturer and tortured, feeling his soul beginning to _shred_. Beginning to warp and rot.

And then how pathetically, gratefully, helplessly relieved he'd been to feel Buddy grasping his shoulder; how certain he'd been that he was saved.

Sam was still looking at him. Dean cast around for some innocuous detail that he could say - something that, hopefully, would not make him actually burst into tears in public.

Finally Dean said, "Wings. I saw wings."

"Wings?"

"Pair of wings. Kind of freaky. Big. Black. Last thing I saw before I woke up."

"Like... bat wings? Angel wings?"

"I don't know. Sort of black shadows, actually. But feathery. Angel wings, I guess? Do they come in black?"

Sam was silent for a long moment. "Yeah, they do. There's some stuff about that from angel sightings in the past, in some of the books where I was reading about Castiel the other night. Apparently angel wings, or Castiel's anyway, can look black and kind of like shadows." Sam frowned. "Do you think it could have been some kind of a premonition?"

"What, that we're going to meet up with Castiel? I don't have premonitions, dude. Besides, it felt flashback-y, not premonition-y."

"Maybe it was some kind of a, I don't know, a flashback but also a premonition? I don't know. Maybe if Castiel's involved with demons somehow, here in the Tetons, maybe you got a whiff of that, and it reminded you of your own time in Hell? And from what Buddy said, we do know now that Castiel's working with demons." Sam thought a moment. "Just suppose for a sec that it was a vision that was something to do about Castiel. If there's even a _chance_ that it means we're really going to meet the dude... then... well, for one thing, what do you think about what Buddy said about Castiel? Do you buy his theory that Castiel isn't really a big deal?"

"Not _remotely_," said Dean, finding suddenly that he had a very strong opinion about this. "I thought Buddy was _way_ off base about that. He was all, 'Castiel is just this nobody loser', but that's completely ridiculous. Castiel is not a loser. I just feel certain he's not. Castiel is... he's much more like... he's..." Dean paused, trying to track down a tiny, flimsy bit of memory that seemed to be evading his grasp.

_Castiel. _Who was Castiel? What was he like?

The more Dean tried to think about it, the more his thoughts seemed to snake away from him. Like minnows in a stream, darting out of his grasp every time he tried to close his hands.

It was really quite maddening how he couldn't seem to keep track of his own thoughts. After a few moments, he found that if he sat still, and let his eyes unfocus, he could _almost _catch those thoughts and keep them still. Almost.

"Castiel is..." Dean repeated, slowly. His head began to ache. He did not notice that Sam, too, seemed to have fallen into a bit of a trance.

The larger fish, the more important thoughts, seemed to sink into the depths, and Dean almost groaned with frustration. But then one of the minnow-thoughts paused for a split second right in front of him. Right where he could see it.

"He's different. Castiel's different," said Dean rapidly, with a surge of relief at being able to keep at least one single thought clear in his mind. It was not the most important thought, he knew, but at least it was something. "He's not like the other angels. He's not like them at all."

"Yeah. He's unique. I'll go with that. " said Sam slowly, staring vacantly at the saltshaker. "And kind of... _tough_, I was gonna say."

That rang a bell. "Yeah. Tough. Tough as hell." echoed Dean, staring vacantly at the pancakes.

They both just sat and stared at the table.

Another minnow-thought paused for a second, and Dean said, "Smart, too."

"Smart," agreed Sam. "Knows a lot. Pretty badass actually. Shouldn't be underestimated."

That, too, felt right. "Definitely badass. And keeps trying. He always tries," said Dean. "He never gives up."

"Never gives up," echoed Sam slowly.

Dean still felt frustrated, and still had the maddening sensation that he was missing something essential, something very important, about the angel Castiel. But he did know one other thing for sure, and he said confidently, "The one thing I'm really certain of is, Buddy's wrong about him."

"Buddy's wrong," agreed Sam. "Remember how he told us to forget about Castiel? But that's not right. It's not right at all. That kind of bothered me."

Both brothers fell silent for another long moment. The phrase _Forget about Castiel, forget about Castiel_ seemed to be echoing in Dean's ears.

_Forget about Castiel_.

Once again, he suddenly seemed to be somewhere else entirely. Ahead of him, a stone archway. A candle.

Tears sliding down Dean's cheeks, as he spoke an unknown chant.

A car honked outside and Dean jerked awake. There was no archway; there was no candle. His face was dry. Sam was saying "And didn't it seem like Buddy's got something personal against Castiel? Sounded like a personal grudge."

Dean blinked, immediately determined to try to hide from Sam that he'd just zoned out again. _Thank god I didn't actually faceplant in the pancakes_, he thought. "Um, yeah," Dean said. With an effort he focused on what Sam was saying.

"It was kind of funny, really," Sam was saying, "how one minute he was talking total shit about the biggest baddie out there, and then a minute later he's defending what sounded like a couple of completely shit friends."

Now _this_ was a topic that Dean also suddenly had a very strong opinion about. Dean said, suddenly heated with anger, "That thing about his friends, that _pissed me off_." He set his coffee cup down with a noisy clatter. "You do _not _treat your friends that way. You just friggin' _don't_. You don't _forget _them, you don't leave them on the street to starve. I don't friggin' care if Buddy made a mistake. Whatever it was, even if he accidentally killed half the planet, you just don't give up on a friend like that, not a _real_ friend, you just _don't_." He banged his fist on the table so hard that some of coffee sloshed out of his cup, and Sam flinched back.

"Whoa. Dean. I agree with you, but, hey, settle down. We don't even really know the guy. Though... I almost feel like we do now."

Dean grabbed a fistful of paper napkins and began sopping up the coffee. "I definitely feel like we _do_ know him. He's a good guy, you can tell, right? Tough, too. Tough as hell. Keeps trying. And smart. But, man, that whole story about how he had to get by on his own, that was just, I don't know what it was about that story, that made me _sick_. Sick to my stomach, Sam, like, I actually felt sick. I don't know why it got to me so bad." Dean finished mopping up the coffee and threw the fistful of coffee-stained napkins on top of his pancakes. He pulled out his wallet and slung down twenty bucks for the breakfast. "All right, let's get out of here. We got stuff to do."

"Aren't you going to finish your pancakes?" said Sam. "You always finish your pancakes."

"Lost my appetite," said Dean. Truth was, he was starting to feel dizzy again, and the headache was coming back, and he just wanted to escape.

* * *

They headed out to the Impala, debating what to do next. Once they began talking about the case, and not about Castiel, Dean felt a bit better; the headache was fading and the dizziness had disappeared.

They were still standing by the Impala, discussing their options for the day, when the ground began to shake.

Both brothers recognized the signs this time, and they scampered further out into the middle of the Silver Dollar Saloon's parking lot, trying to get safely out of range of the saloon's brick walls. Fortunately it was a much smaller earthquake this time, not nearly as alarming as the one by the bridge. It only lasted a few seconds.

But it was followed by another small quake an hour later. And then another small one an hour after that, and they began to wonder. Sam theorized it might all just be aftershocks, but when they grabbed a late lunch at a small diner downtown, their waitress reported that a rumor was spreading through town: apparently the "USGS guys" had picked up some disturbing trends.

"What the hell is USGS?" whispered Dean to Sam as the waitress walked away.

"United States Geological Survey? One of the big federal science agencies? Like NASA except for the earth?"

Dean looked completely blank. Sam said patiently, "Geologists, Dean. Point is, they apparently have an office here, I guess because this is a geologic hot spot and all. Too bad we don't have any USGS id's."

"But they'd talk with park service guys, right?" said Dean hopefully. "They've got to. We're from the DC office — we need to know whether to close the park, right?" He grinned at Sam.

And sure enough, an hour later they were back in the national park, inside the local USGS seismic monitoring facility, chatting with a bushy-bearded geologist who was only too happy to talk their ears off.

"Yeah, big cluster of miniquakes going on," the geologist said. "Check it out." He pointed to his computer screen, which was displaying a map of the Tetons area. The map was peppered with dozens of colored dots, clustered around the Yellowstone and the Tetons. "It's not unusual to get little quakes here," said the geologist. "Actually there's tiny quakes all over, all the time, every day, that we don't feel because they're just too faint. But this is more than usual. And they're stronger than usual. This whole region's been unusually active the last couple months actually — did you feel that one yesterday?"

"Yeah, but, aren't these little ones today just aftershocks, then?" asked Sam.

"Well... they're not decreasing in intensity like aftershocks usually do. Also..." The geologist trailed off, stroking his beard. "I'm not supposed to say anything, but we've got a press release going out in half an hour anyway, so I guess it doesn't really matter if I tell you guys now." He paused dramatically, and said, "The caldera's bulging." He raised his eyebrows, giving them a you-know-what-that-means sort of look.

"Right. The Yellowstone caldera," said Dean, nodding knowingly. A moment of silence ticked by. Dean said, "And, um, what is a caldera again?"

Sam scowled at Dean. But the geologist just laughed and said, "You DC guys! Well, at least you asked, instead of just pretending like you know it all. A caldera's a collapsed area over a big volcano. Like a crater, but bigger. We're right on top of a supervolcano, you know."

"An... extinct volcano?" asked Sam.

The geologist raised his eyebrows again. "Old Faithful look extinct to you?"

"Oh. Right," said Dean. "Ha, Sam. What were you thinking. And supervolcanos... when their calderas bulge, it means..."

"A super-eruption, of course," said the geologist.

"Of course," said Dean, his face going blank.

"Though that's just the worst-case scenario," said the geologist cheerily. "It might just do a lava flow. Or a steam eruption. Those are much littler. Last steam eruption here only made a five-kilometer diameter crater."

"Tiny," said Dean.

"So, um, how much is the caldera bulging?" asked Sam.

"Gone up an inch, just in the last couple months," he said.

Dean and Sam both started to look a bit relieved till the geologist added, "So about twelve times the usual rate. You guys remember when it zoomed up a few years ago? It's been kind of like that."

"Remind us," said Sam.

"Well, you probably know the background, but, we started monitoring it in 1923. Usually it's just growing about half an inch a year, and then it suddenly took off in late 2004. Kept bulging up really fast till the middle of 2008. And then we had that swarm of quakes in 2009 and then that kind of big quake in 2010. Kind of exciting! Then it all kind of stopped for a couple years. So, now it's suddenly started up again."

Dean shot a sharp glance at Sam, and Sam studiously avoided Dean's eyes.

"Um, so, just hypothetically, what would it be like if a super-eruption actually happened?" asked Sam.

"Oh, you know, the whole massive underground magma chamber here would sort of burst out. It's the biggest magma chamber on earth — isn't that cool?" The geologist grinned. "So if it ever had a serious explosion, we're talking this whole region obliterated, plus an ash cloud blanketing basically the whole rest of the continent. The food chain in North America would pretty much collapse. The atmosphere'd be affected for about a decade, you know, blocking out the sun and all that. Famine, panic, dogs and cats living together, all that end-of-days type stuff. Free tip, boys, if this puppy ever blows, go west, not east. Head to Oregon. Or, Canada. Canada's good."

After a dead silent pause, the geologist said, "But that's all just speculation, of course! I'm not supposed to give my personal prediction. I could get sued or something. Let's see..." He leaned over his desk, ruffling through several dozen brightly colored post-its that were cluttered around his phone, and finally fishing out a hot pink one. "Oh yeah, here's what I'm supposed to say if the press calls." He cleared his throat, and declaimed in a sonorous voice, "Recurrence intervals of these events are neither regular nor predictable." He grinned at them again. "Which basically means, we have no friggin' clue! Kind of a fun place to be a geologist, wouldn't you say?"

"Loads of fun," said Dean.

They thanked him for his time, and returned to the Impala.

* * *

"He was just giving us the worst-case scenario, right?" said Dean. "And worst-case scenarios don't ever really happen. Right?"

They were walking back to the Impala. Sam had the crucifix hanging from his hand again and was looking at it. "Dean," he said. The crucifix was lazily turning counterclockwise. Very slowly, but very steadily. And no matter where Sam walked or where he held it, it just kept slowly turning.

They both watched it for a few minutes. Finally Sam stuffed the crucifix back in his pocket and the two brothers got into the Impala. Dean didn't say anything, but slowly put the Impala into gear and backed out of the USGS facility, and turned onto the main road.

Neither brother spoke for several minutes. Dean drove south, back toward the town. The Impala rolled slowly down the winding road through the national park. The spectacular five peaks of the Tetons soared up dramatically on their right, and the great bowl of the valley spread out on their left. The tremendous peaks were jagged and sharp, almost like a child's drawing of mountains, coated in snow, crystalline against the deep blue sky. The woods in the valley below were a vivid patchwork of bright-yellow aspen and dark spruce.

It was heartbreakingly beautiful, but neither brother said a word.

A few minutes later, as they turned onto the main road back to town, Dean finally spoke. "2004 was when Dad started going after Yelloweyes," he said, almost idly. "When everything started. I came to get you a few months later when he disappeared. 2008, when the caldera was really bulging I guess, was when shit really started to go south. 2009, with all the little quakes, was when all the seals were being broken. And 2010, when he said the big earthquake happened, that was when the Apocalypse really started."

"I know, Dean."

"So now this caldera is starting up again. Which means—"

"I know what it means, Dean."

They were both silent a long time. The great mountains slid slowly past on their right. They passed a herd of elk, and then another of bison. Neither noticed.

"We were joking before about Castiel trying to blow the Yellowstone caldera," said Sam. "But. Dean. That may actually be what he's doing."

"I don't even know where I'm driving to, Sam," said Dean slowly. "Where do we go next? I don't know what to do. "

"We've got to take on those angels. There's no way around it. We have to. We have to stop this. This isn't optional anymore."

"We need some more help," said Dean. A moment later he said, "I know where I'm driving to. I know where to go." As soon as they got to town he turned west, up the Teton Pass Road, toward their motel - or rather, toward the little cabin in the woods.

* * *

_A/N - Everything about the Yellowstone caldera in this chapter is true (except that nothing is going on right now there, as far as I know). Including the dates, which really do match up with Supernatural events just as Dean says. Spooky, huh?_

_UPDATE: Right after I wrote this chapter, a team of Yellowstone geologists announced that the magma chamber — already the biggest one known on earth — is 2.5x bigger than previously thought, and that it's overdue for a massive eruption. _

_If you enjoyed or if you have comments, please review! _


	9. Heavenly Weapons

_Author's Note: __This chapter's longer than usual but I really wanted to fit the night's events into a single chapter. Hope you enjoy._

* * *

It was near nightfall by the time they got to Buddy's little cabin. He must have heard the Impala coming, for he was already standing in the doorway when they pulled up outside. As they got out of the car, he greeted them politely, saying, "Hello, Dean. Hello, Sam."

_Hello, Dean..._

It was probably the most innocuous phrase possible, but it seemed to resonate in Dean's head as if a bell had been struck. Dean faltered to a halt. Sam, on the other side of the car, had also stopped moving and was also looking a bit puzzled.

Dean blinked. "H... hello," he stammered back.

He had to look away from Buddy and stare at a pinecone at his feet for a moment, just to get his focus back.

He looked back up to see Buddy frowning at him, biting his lip.

"It's really not the best idea for us to be talking," Buddy said.

"You've said that about a million times already," said Dean, managing to start walking again. _"_And you still haven't explained what on earth you mean by that. Just by the way."

Buddy didn't respond. Instead he seemed to be studying Dean carefully. As Dean walked around the corner of the car, Buddy scanned him from head to foot, scrutinizing him so closely that Dean felt almost as if he were being x-rayed. "How are you feeling?" Buddy asked.

"Oh! Great!" said Dean. "Totally great. No problems. Got some sleep, got some food, all good now. Sorry about all that dizzy stuff. Just a one-time thing," Dean forced himself to put on a cheerful grin, and stood a little taller, trying to look as healthy and absolutely-not-gonna-pass-out as possible. _Can't let him see there's anything wrong_, he kept thinking. _Gotta convince him — and Sam — that I'm ready for a hunt_.

"So... you do not have a headache now?" asked Buddy, "No... dreams, by any chance?"

"Nope. Didn't dream a lick last night," said Dean, grateful to be able to answer something truthfully for once.

Buddy still looked a bit skeptical, but he gestured at them both to come in.

"As I was saying," Buddy said as soon as they were all in the cabin, "We really shouldn't be talking, but—" Dean took a breath and opened his mouth to object, but Buddy glared him into silence and went on, "_But,_ I'm glad you came up anyway. I need to tell you something. Actually I was planning to walk down to your motel to talk to you." He paused. "I overheard the angels again today and—"

"How exactly are you overhearing them?" interrupted Dean, curious.

"I overheard them using the methods that I use to overhear them," said Buddy blandly, "and they're planning something. They're going to try to take some more people. Tomorrow. So I wanted to tell you that you should stay away from Death Canyon tomorrow."

"And what are you going to be doing tomorrow?" asked Dean innocently.

Buddy's mouth tightened into a thin line, and he looked down at the map that was spread out on the little table. He was standing right next to the little table, with Dean and Sam standing to either side. Dean crossed his arms and looked at Buddy closely. The scrapes and bruises on Buddy's face looked even more dramatic now — they were starting to turn interesting colors at the edges.

He didn't exactly look ready for battle, Dean thought.

"You wouldn't be planning on, say, going out to Death Canyon or anything?" asked Dean.

Buddy sighed. "All right. Yes, I'm planning to head out to the trailhead tomorrow morning. Just to try to intercept any hikers."

"Not by yourself you're not," said Dean. "You need some backup. You can't do this alone."

Buddy looked at him. "Dean, I've been doing this alone for months."

"And three people have died." Dean knew this was unfair, but he also knew that this was the only sort of argument that Buddy would listen to. The guy clearly didn't care about his own safety, but he did care about saving other people.

Buddy's eyes narrowed. "And twenty-three others haven't."

"Could have been twenty-six if you'd thought to ask for some help," said Dean.

"I didn't _have _any help," said Buddy, grim.

"You didn't _look _for any, did you?" said Dean. "Look, all I'm trying to say is—"

"_Guys_," interrupted Sam. Dean and Buddy both glared at him and said "What?" simultaneously.

"Holy moley, you two are like an old married couple," said Sam. "You can continue your little tiff later. Buddy, we came up here because there's something else going on too, something pretty big. We just talked to a geologist in the park and it's looking like the whole Yellowstone caldera is, well, bulging. That's apparently bad news. A caldera is, like, a big crater where—"

"I know what a caldera is," Buddy said. He looked down at the map again, tracing his fingers over the Yellowstone area. "And I know what it's like when the one here erupts. I've seen..." He cut himself off, paused a moment, and said, "It's happened before. It's... quite dramatic."

He turned his back to them, walked a few steps to the hearth and looked into the fire. He seemed lost in thought. After a long moment he said, still facing the fire, "Thank you for telling me. This changes things. I was worried they might be working up to something like this, but I admit I didn't really think they were going to succeed, or at least not this soon." He turned around, looking at them both thoughtfully. "The, um, _entity_, the being they are working with, must be strengthening faster than I realized. It must be getting a tremendous amount of power from each victim. Which is... strange. For it to have gained so much strength from just three deaths... that means..."

He hesitated. A pained look crossed his face.

"It means what?" asked Sam.

Buddy looked very disturbed. "There's only one reliable method to gain that much power that quickly: consuming souls. Devouring them."

His head dropped. "This... is very concerning," he said. "Consuming souls..." He couldn't seem to finish the sentence. He took a few steps to the crate by the table, and sat down on it slowly, lowering himself gingerly down, bracing himself on the table with his left hand. "Dean— Sam—" he said, "This is bad. This is very bad."

"You know, the whole giant-magma-chamber-possibly-exploding thing already seemed pretty bad," remarked Dean. Buddy cast him a tired look.

"This entity—" Buddy began.

"We need a name for it," said Dean. "Caldera-Monster. No, that's way too long. Lava Beast. Magma Thing."

"The entity—" said Buddy again.

"Mr. Magma!"

Buddy covered his eyes with one hand. Sam said, "Dean, _really_?"

"Sorry," said Dean guiltily. The truth was, the ashen look on Buddy's face had sent a shiver of dread down Dean's spine. For he knew, somehow, that anything that scared Buddy that much had to be _very_ bad news.

So Dean, of course, had resorted to his first line of defense: bad jokes.

But Buddy gave him a faint smile. "It's all right. I know you need to joke. Anyway, the entity, your, um, Mr. Magma, is probably going to gain quite a lot more energy if it does succeed in obtaining more victims tomorrow. Possibly enough to power a serious eruption. So, as I said, this changes things. We do have to go directly after them. Now. And we may have to work together after all." Dean grinned at that, but Buddy gave him a stern look and added, "Just for one day." He thought a moment longer, and said, "I have a couple of items that might be of use."

He got up — stiffly — from his crate. Again he had to pause for a moment, holding his breath.

"Bud, look, your ribs—" said Dean.

"—Are fine," said Buddy, cutting him off. "Just a bit sore. I'll be fine tomorrow." He straightened with obvious effort, his face tightening slightly. Then he walked to the shelf that ran along the right-hand wall of the cabin, and picked up the white cardboard shoebox that they'd seen the night before.

He put the box on the little table, set both hands on the lid of the box, and hesitated, looking at Sam and Dean. "I've been saving these. But I think now may be the time."

He lifted the lid of the white box, and Dean and Sam both leaned closer to look.

The box turned out to hold a collection of fairly standard spell-related paraphernalia - chalk, a few candles, chunks of resin, small stoppered vials containing herbs and other ingredients, and several glassine envelopes labelled in the same scrolly handwriting that Dean had noticed before.

And in the side of the box there was a rolled-up wad of velvet tied with a piece of gold ribbon, set apart from everything else. Buddy picked this up, undid the ribbon, and unrolled the velvet cautiously, taking care not to drop the contents.

"I think these are what we need now," he said.

He lifted the last bit of velvet to reveal two large glass marbles, each about an inch in diameter.

"What are they?" asked Sam.

"They... There's not really a good English translation. You could call them orbs of power, I suppose, or orbs of advantage. Basically, they give you an advantage in battle."

"Power-ups!" said Dean immediately, grinning. "They're power-ups!"

"I don't know that term," said Buddy, giving Dean a slightly perplexed look, "but they are one of the weapons of Heaven. Because, the really useful thing about them is, they work even against angels. As you know, there are not that many weapons that are effective against angels." He looked down at the two marbles, touching them gently with one finger. "Most of these orbs were used up a few years ago during... a battle, but I... happened to obtain these two." He glanced up at Dean. "We will be confronting two angels and two demons as well as, ah, Mr. Magma. We will be outnumbered, and seriously overpowered. The angels are what I am most worried about. We need an advantage."

"Couldn't we try the banishing sigil?" asked Sam.

"Yes, we probably will try that as well. But as you know, it's difficult to pull that off successfully — you have to be in very close range, and you have to draw it immediately, on the spot, in fresh blood. We should also bring angel-blades — do you each have one?" Dean and Sam both nodded, and Buddy gave one short nod in return. "Good. And I'll bring mine. But both of those methods, the sigil and the blades, are close-range only. These orbs will give us a much greater tactical advantage."

He looked down at the two glass marbles again. "They are inactive at the moment. Tomorrow, once we reach the canyon, I will activate them. But I'm going to give you one now, and I'll also tell you how to use it, just in case we get separated." He looked at Dean sternly. "_Don't _use it on your own unless you absolutely have to."

He set one of the glass marbles in Dean's hand. Sam leaned close as Dean held it up to the firelight, and both brothers peered at it. It seemed full of a gray substance that was moving in slow swirls, as if a small piece of fog were trapped inside.

"There are a few things you should know," said Buddy. "The most important is, it can only be used once."

"Classic power-up," said Dean. "They're always one-time use." Buddy gave him that perplexed look again. Dean was holding back a smile until he remembered Buddy saying, the previous night, _It's so confusing — you have no idea — you truly can have no idea._

The smile died on Dean's lips. "Never mind," said Dean to Buddy. "Just a stupid joke. How long will they last?"

"It's a little unpredictable, but they usually last several days, once activated. Sufficient for our needs tomorrow. I hope."

Buddy explained how to activate the orbs. It involved a fairly simple spell that, Buddy said, would only take about three minutes to perform. There was an incantation, of course, which Buddy wrote out for them phonetically on a sheet of paper. And they would need chalk to draw a sigil, which Buddy also diagrammed for them, along with a few ingredients that Buddy had in the white box: a black feather (Buddy seemed oddly reluctant to hand this feather over, but finally managed to relinquish his hold on it and pass it to Dean), a pinch of sea salt from the Red Sea, a extinct species of Greek flower that Buddy somehow had a few petals from, and a Peruvian potato.

"A Peruvian potato?" asked Sam.

"Don't ask," said Buddy. "Long story." He bundled up the ingredients in a small plastic bag, along with Dean's orb — safely wrapped in the velvet again - and handed the whole bag to Dean. Then he wrapped up a second set of ingredients, and the second orb, for himself, and tucked it in the inner pocket of his leather jacket, which was hanging on the peg on the wall.

"Cool jacket, by the way," Dean said. "I used to have one just like it."

Buddy started nervously, and said, "Oh, they're... common, aren't they? Aren't they're quite common? Many people have this sort of jacket."

"Not really. Not that exact brand anyway."

"It's very common," contradicted Buddy firmly. "Half my friends wore exactly this sort of jacket." A moment later he said, "On second thought I probably don't need the jacket tomorrow," and he pulled the orb-package back out and stuck it in a shoulder bag that was hanging under the jacket. He wadded the jacket up in a haphazard bundle and shoved it down into a box of kindling, turned, stood in front of the box of kindling and said, "Would either of you like a drink?"

Sam slid Dean a blankly innocuous look, holding Dean's eyes a split second longer than usual. Dean knew what he meant: Buddy clearly didn't want them to see something about the jacket. But Dean just shook his head minutely at Sam. Whatever it was about the jacket, they could let it pass for now. It was the night before a hunt, after all, and there were other things that were more important. Such as, Dean thought, their traditional last-drink-before-a-hunt.

It might be their last chance to relax for a while. The jacket could wait.

"A drink sounds good, Buddy," said Dean.

"How about beer," added Buddy hastily. He seemed reluctant to move from his position in front of the box of kindling (where he was ever-so-casually shielding the jacket from closer inspection) and instead said, "I put them in the little refrigerator. Would you like to get them out?"

Dean obediently went over to the mini-fridge, grinning to himself and thinking, _I bet he's a horrible liar_.

Dean opened up the minifridge, pulled out three beers and twisted off their caps. Sam pulled Buddy's chair-crate and one of the other firewood crates closer to the fire, putting them on either side of the pile of blankets. Dean handed them each a beer and leaned against the counter; Sam sat on one of the crates, and Buddy took the other.

As soon as Buddy sat down, the little cat stood from the blankets, stretched, walked a couple steps to Buddy's crate and put one paw up on his leg. He was staring into the fire now, the beer in one hand, and he absently gave the cat a little "come up" gesture with his free hand. She immediately jumped up into his lap, curled up and lay down. Buddy began petting her lightly, and Sam and Dean could both hear the little cat begin to purr.

Buddy smiled down at the cat, and Dean was startled to realize how rare it was to see him truly smile. Not one of those small, sad half-smiles, but a real smile.

Buddy seemed to have relaxed a bit, and Sam and Dean both unconsciously relaxed too. Dean took a swallow from his beer, and watched his brother, and their odd new friend Buddy, both silhouetted against the fire.

It felt good to be here with both of them — not just with Sam, but Buddy too. It felt comfortable. It felt almost familiar.

It felt peaceful. Such moments could be rare, especially on the night before a major hunt, and Dean found he didn't want to break the mood.

Sam apparently was feeling the same way, for instead of discussing the case further, he asked Buddy, "So, hey, how'd you end up with the cat?"

Buddy looked up at Sam. "Shortly after I arrived, the people in one of the other cabins left, and they just... well, they just left her. They put her outside and left." He looked down at the cat. He was now running his thumb gently back and forth along her cheek, and the cat had stretched her head out and closed her eyes, still purring.

Buddy continued, "I noticed her a week later still waiting at the door to their cabin. She still thought they were going to come back for her. She was still trying to get back in. She was very hungry. And cold. And scared." He paused. "But finally I got her back here, and I sat with her in front of the fire. I didn't have much money then, not enough to buy different food for each of us, so I only bought cat food for a week. We shared it. Till I could get another job."

Dean and Sam looked at each other. Buddy saw their glance, and looked back and forth between them. "Is that... strange?" he asked uncertainly. "She was hungry. I didn't know what else to do."

Dean hesitated, thinking _He needs to stop worrying about whether he's strange. It's a good kind of strange_.

"Who gives a damn if it's strange," said Dean. "It's pretty awesome, actually."

Buddy looked at him for a moment, and Dean knew he was trying to assess if Dean was "mocking" him or not. Dean's heart sank a little.

"I'm not joking," said Dean. "I mean it."

Buddy gave him a small smile, and looked back down at the cat.

Sam asked, "Do you know why the people left their cat behind?"

Buddy paused and said, "Well... it's a different species. It wasn't truly a member of their family." He momentarily stopped petting the cat as he said this. The cat mewed, and reached a paw out toward his hand, and he put his hand absently on her head again. Buddy said, "I thought, they might have called it 'family' but not really meant it. Sort of, sub-family. Almost-family. But not really family at all when the time came to really make a decision." He glanced very briefly at Dean as he said this, but seemed unable to maintain eye contact; his eyes dropped immediately to the floor, and he turned his head to look into the fire instead.

He added, "I also thought, perhaps it was just too much effort to take care of it. Or, I wondered if maybe they realized they just didn't... didn't enjoy its company. Just didn't like it. Didn't want it around. Maybe it was no fun, or not entertaining enough. Or too stupid. Or just in the way. Maybe it did something bad and they couldn't forgive it. Perhaps they were trying to punish it... or maybe they just... just decided they were better off without it." He was still staring into the fire, methodically running through this list of possibilities as if the question of why the people down the road had abandoned their cat was suddenly the most important question in the world. "What do you think?" he asked Dean.

Dean felt fairly sure he was missing something about this odd conversational detour about the cat. He could not quite pin down what it was that was flying over his head, but he said, "I think those people were dicks. I think you're a much better person."

Buddy gave him such a confused look at this, his head tipped and his eyes squinted in puzzlement, that Dean almost laughed. Seeing that puzzled look on Buddy's face, with his head tilted like that, inexplicably made Dean very happy. He took a step closer and clapped Buddy on the shoulder. "Don't worry about why the people down the road were dicks. They're gone now. The important thing is, now you got a little furry friend here, right? Bet that makes the place a little less lonely, huh?"

Buddy blinked, and smiled. "It is less lonely, yes. Surprisingly so. The cat greets me when I come home." He looked down at the little cat and said, "It is quite nice to be greeted. I've traveled alone for... quite a long time, really. Especially this year." He looked up brightly and added, "Also she brings me dead voles sometimes. I don't eat voles, but it's a thoughtful gesture, don't you think?"

He said this so seriously that both Sam and Dean had to choke back a laugh.

"What if..." Sam said. "What if. Um. Will the cat be ok on its own?"

Sam meant, of course, _what if you die_? But it was contrary to hunter etiquette to say this flat out.

But Buddy merely nodded. "That was the first thing I thought of when I took her in. I always leave her enough food and water for a week, and I have an arrangement with the owners of your motel: if I don't check in with them once a week, they know to come up here and take care of the cat."

The fire crackled softly. Buddy took a long breath and said slowly, "Sam. Dean. If anything does happen tomorrow, there's something I—"

"Stop. Stop right there. No speeches," said Dean. "Rule number one."

Buddy looked at him for a long moment. A long, slow sigh escaped his lips, as if he were deflating slightly, and he looked a little saddened, but he just nodded.

He drank a tiny bit more of his beer, and Sam and Dean swigged down the last of theirs.

"Back to business," said Dean reluctantly. "So, what's the plan?"

Buddy already had a plan in mind, it turned out. His plan was: Sam and Dean would come back to pick up Buddy early the next morning, and they would all head together to Death Canyon, parking the car at the beginning of the hiking trail. There, at the trailhead, Buddy would activate one or both of the orbs (depending on what he "overheard" tonight, which Dean was getting more and more curious about). Meanwhile the two brothers would block the hiking trail with fallen logs and some closed-trail signs, in hopes of dissuading any random hikers.

And then they'd start hiking, walking a few miles further in toward the hidden meadow with the abandoned ranch buildings. They were hoping to find the building that the angels and demons were using.

"I'm sure they're in one of those buildings," said Buddy. "I just don't know which one. There's several and they're scattered over a couple miles."

"Not a big problem. Should be pretty easy to figure out which one. And once we find them, Sam and I will go in and kill them," Dean said. "And you will stay out of the way."

Buddy frowned at him. "What do you mean? I'm coming in with you."

"You're hurt, Bud. "

"I'm coming in anyway," Buddy said.

"Bud, you can barely walk."

"I'm coming with you anyway," Buddy repeated stubbornly.

"Jeez, Bud. Suicidal much?" Dean said. At this comment Buddy glanced down at the floor, and went completely silent for a moment.

He looked up a moment later and said, looking Dean right in the eyes, "Dean, I know I'm probably useless. But I think I could be of some assistance. Even if just as a distraction. Is it truly impossible that I can still help you and Sam? Even if it is just in a very small way?"

"You've already helped," said Dean. "I know you want to do more — I get it, I do. But I'm not going to let you risk yourself." Dean could not quite explain, even to himself, why he felt so strongly about keeping Buddy safe. "I'm just not going to let you—"

"Dean." Buddy interrupted. "I'm not a baby." Something dark had crept into his voice, and he went on, "I may be... inexperienced in some ways, but I am not a baby, and I'm not a child. Will you show me some respect about this. I must make my own decision, and I'm coming in with you and that's final."

Dean hesitated. Something was fluttering at the back of his mind now, and again that haunting voice began to echo in the distance—

_You should show me some respect_

But Dean had learned by now that the best thing to do, when he felt those strange dizzy spells coming on, was to look somewhere else and change the topic immediately. So he just gave Buddy a quick nod, turned sharply to the sink, set his empty bottle down in it, and said, "Right then. What time are we meeting?"

* * *

Back at the motel, Sam and Dean doublechecked their supplies, rearranging everything they'd need into a couple of packs that they could take on the trail. Soon they were ready for bed.

"I feel about a million times better now that Buddy's working with us," said Sam as they were turning in.

"Me too. It's funny though," Dean said, "I also sort of keep worrying he might just disappear on us. Just kind of go poof, go make some stupid decision on his own, without running it by us first."

"Yeah... I get that too," said Sam. "Like he might just go flying off on his own. Maybe we should think over the whole plan. Be sure we're good to go even if he disappears on us tomorrow. And Dean," he added, staring at the ceiling, "Did you notice he doesn't seem to care _at all_ if he gets killed."

"He's carrying something heavy, I think." Dean thought a moment. "But. You know what. He'll want to stay alive just to take care of that cat! Don't you think?"

Sam laughed. "That was pretty damn cute, actually. It's kind of reassuring to know he's not up there completely alone. Even if it's just a cat."

"A cat's better than nothing, I guess," said Dean.

They discussed the next day's plans a bit more, trying to look at it from every angle, trying to plan for every possibility. The math was not encouraging: two angels, two demons, and Mr. Magma; versus only three humans, one of them injured. And this new worry that Buddy might "go poof" was bothering them both. They talked it over for some time.

Finally Sam turned the light off, and soon both brothers fell asleep.

* * *

Some time later, Dean found himself walking through the huge empty house again. He felt even more frustrated than usual. The lost thing that he was looking for was very close now, he knew — so close! Closer than it had ever been! Practically right next to him! Every time he walked around a corner, he was absolutely certain he'd find it there waiting for him. And every time he was disappointed.

He looked in every cupboard, he searched through every drawer. He circled back to the front room again and looked with a sigh at the large painting with the tarnished silver frame. Where on earth had he seen that painting before? He'd seen it somewhere, he was certain. An angel, hovering above a crowd of people. As before, he noticed the angel's wings had been so covered in black soot that the wings seemed to have disappeared entirely.

The little marble statuette was there on the mantel again. Dean knew it would fall, but was completely unable to resist reaching out and touching it anyway. And the little angel fell, as it always did, and the wings broke off and shattered, as they always did.

Dean was furious at himself for _once again_ breaking the angel, for the _millionth _time it seemed, and _once again_ forgetting to bring glue to fix it. How many times had he had this dream already? And every single time, he forgot to bring glue to his dream! "I'm such a friggin' idiot," Dean swore to himself, kneeling at the hearth, fiddling endlessly with the broken wings and the little angel statuette. It seemed like a jigsaw puzzle that he almost, _almost, _could put together. But he kept fumbling with the pieces, dropping them, picking them up again, and just couldn't seem to see how it all connected_._

He gave up, and stood to leave.

"Sorry," he said to the little broken angel. As he always did.

He felt almost desperately frustrated. He knew he was missing something.

And then, way ahead of schedule, he found himself muttering, "Please, I really could use some help here. _Please_."

He walked over to the door that led to the next room. As he put his hand on the doorknob, he saw that the firelight was casting a flickering shadow across the door.

Firelight?

Dean turned back to the hearth.

There was a fire burning now. It was now a little stone fireplace, crates full of firewood next to it, and there was a fire burning. And where the little broken statuette had been, there was a man, sleeping, right there on the hearth, right in front of the fire.

Dean walked back over. The man was lying in a small pile of wool blankets, he saw, curled up tightly as if trying to stay warm. Dean tiptoed closer, and saw that it was Buddy. He was fast asleep.

"Buddy?" Dean knelt down and touched him on the shoulder. "What are you doing here?"

Buddy opened his eyes slowly, looking half-drugged. He blinked, confused, and looked at Dean; and then he really woke, his eyes darting all around the room and back to Dean. He sat up, clutching the blankets around him, looking up at Dean with wide blue eyes, his dark hair rumpled messily.

"Bud, how did you get here?" said Dean.

"How would I know how I got here?" said Buddy. "This is your dream, not mine." But then he caught himself and looked around the room again, at the huge dark room and the shrouded furniture. "Oh. Oh, I see," he said. "Is this the first floor? I've never seen the first floor." He twisted around to look at the fireplace, and glanced up at the painting.

He looked at the painting for a long moment, and then turned back to Dean, looking at him thoughtfully. Then his eyes dropped to Dean's hands, and he frowned. Dean looked down and saw that he was still holding the broken pieces of the marble wings, one in each hand. The statuette itself seemed to be gone — it had been lying where Buddy was now — but Dean still had the pieces of the wings.

Dean had a very confused moment of thinking that as soon as he _finally_ remembered to bring some glue to this stupid dream, the logical thing to do would be to glue the marble wings onto Buddy's shoulders. He actually started to hold the tiny marble wings out toward Buddy. Buddy looked startled as Dean's hands moved closer, and he stared at the wing-pieces with something like shock. Dean stopped, his hands frozen in midair, a couple of broken wing-pieces in each hand, trying to figure out what was wrong with what he was trying to do.

"Dean. Stop. Stop this. You're going to hurt yourself," said Buddy.

"I can't seem to put it together," whispered Dean, bringing his hands back down and staring at the jumbled pieces in his hands.

"You have to put the pieces together for yourself, Dean," said Buddy gently. "I can't do it for you. I can barely even... It is very difficult to talk here. But — Dean — I really don't think you should try. It's not safe. It's not safe _for you_."

Dean looked at him.

"And. Dean. You're better off this way," said Buddy, very softly. His eyes seemed to be glittering. "Your life is better. You're... happier. Aren't you?"

Dean's head began to hurt.

"Wake up, Dean," was the last thing he heard.

Dean woke. His head was pounding, and his stomach was churning with nausea. He staggered to the bathroom, trying not to wake Sam, and chugged down six ibuprofen for the headache (after reading the side of the bottle, which said "Recommended dose: Two tablets"), following it with two antihistamines ("Recommended dose: One tablet") to try to knock himself out. He stayed in the bathroom a while longer, sitting on the edge of the tub and resting his head on the cool sink, feeling too ill to do anything else.

The nausea eventually eased. His head still was aching ferociously, though, so Dean tiptoed quietly outside to the ice machine in the lobby, got a few ice cubes, and then crept back to his bed and held the ice cubes to his forehead with a washcloth.

_That was a weird one,_ he thought. The dream had never stopped in the middle before. And what was Buddy doing showing up in his dream? Maybe it was just because Buddy's cabin had a fireplace? Or maybe ...

His head began to throb again. Dean had to quit thinking about it, and just held the ice cubes to his forehead, waiting patiently, trying to think about nothing at all. Till finally the drugs took hold and he was at last able to get back to sleep.

* * *

At six in the morning, four alarms all went off within a minute of each other — both their cell phones and both of the bedside clocks. (Sam always went a bit overboard with the alarms when they had to get up early for a hunt.) Dean woke blearily. Sam was already awake, and was taking a quick shower. Dean dragged himself out of bed.

In just a few minutes they were ready for their new plan: they had decided to activate Dean's orb early, before picking up Buddy. That is, before Buddy could stop them.

Sam doublechecked the spell ingredients that they'd laid out late last night, while Dean unwrapped the piece of velvet and looked at the grey glass marble.

"You ready?" Dean said.

"Dean... I'm not totally sure about this. He's going to be so pissed."

"We talked it through last night, Sam." said Dean. "You know this is our best shot."

"I know. I just really hate doing this behind his back."

"Me too," said Dean sadly. "But this is too important. We've got to use every advantage we can get. And you saw how stubborn Buddy is — once he's with us there's just no way he's going to let us use this orb thingy on our own. And if he flakes on us, well, we'd just do this anyway, right?"

Sam had already set out a cloth on the table late last night, and had drawn the sigil that Buddy had diagrammed for them. Now he laid the necessary items in their proper places in the sigil: the black feather that Buddy had seemed so fond of, the sea salt, the rare petals, and the Peruvian potato. Sam unfolded Buddy's piece of paper with the written-out incantation.

"Ready?" asked Sam. "You sure about this?"

Dean started to feel a qualm of nausea. But, he thought, it was likely just because of last night — wasn't it?

He felt too tired to think it through. So he just said to Sam, "Showtime. Do it."

Sam carefully said the whole incantation, squinting at the page, making sure he got every syllable right. He came to the end of the page, and nodded at Dean.

At the end of the spell, Buddy had explained, they needed to say just one more word: the name of a specific enemy that they wanted to weaken. Weaken, wound, or maybe, if they were lucky, even kill. Dean drew a breath and said:

"Castiel."

The candle flared up and hissed, and the orb seemed to explode with a bright blaze of light, so bright they both had to shield their eyes.

When they opened their eyes again, the candle was out, the feather, salt and petals had burned to ash, and the Peruvian potato had disappeared entirely. But the little glass marble was intact. It was now milky white instead of grey, and when Dean touched it gingerly, he found it warm to the touch.

"I think it's working," he said to Sam.

Buddy had explained, while he'd been writing out the incantation last night, that the orbs worked not by boosting the holder's power, but by disabling an enemy. But they had to have a specific name for it to work, and Buddy knew the name of only one of the angels that they would be confronting. He had been planning not to use the second orb till they were actually at the right building and had found out the second angel's name. This had seemed like a perilous plan to Sam and Dean, who, of course, were already certain that the second angel was Castiel. So why not go after Castiel immediately?

It had seemed like a great plan late last night when Dean had thought of it.

But now, tucking the warm white marble in his pocket, the thought _Castiel is in trouble_ drifted through Dean's mind, and for some reason he began to feel very uneasy.

"Dean. Suddenly I don't feel so good about this," Sam whispered beside him.

"Kind of getting that feeling myself. Well... too late now. What's done is done," said Dean firmly, trying to ignore the clenching feeling in his stomach. "And it's a good plan. Isn't it?" Sam looked at him doubtfully. A little voice in the back of Dean's head was chanting _Mistake, mistake, mistake_, and it was only with a great effort of will that he was able to ignore it and begin packing up his gear.

"Let's go," said Dean, slinging his pack over his back. "I think we've got a long day ahead of us."

* * *

_A/N - _

_This story seems to have a mind of its own, and the boys seem to just keep getting in trouble all by themselves. Don't be too mad at them; they're doing their best with what they know, and remember there's a spell mucking with them._

_Thank you for reading, and please review! I love to hear your feedback._


	10. A Very Bad Morning

Things began to go wrong almost immediately.

Buddy had told them he'd be waiting for them at the turnoff to his road at a quarter to seven. But when Sam and Dean neared the turnoff, they found a pickup truck already stopped there, its hazard lights blinking brightly in the grey pre-dawn twilight. They could just make out some people standing near the truck, stooped over something that was huddled at the side of the road.

Sam said, "This can't be good."

Dean pulled the Impala over just behind the pickup, and both brothers hurried out of the car.

The people turned out to be a man and a woman who had presumably arrived in the pickup truck, and the something-huddled-by-the-road turned out to be Buddy. He was sitting on the ground slumped against a large boulder, his shoulder-bag lying in the dirt a few feet away. The man was leaning over Buddy, shifting uncertainly from foot to foot, and the woman was kneeling next to him, patting his shoulder. As Sam and Dean got closer they could hear her saying, "Honey, I really think you ought to lie down till the paramedics get here."

The couple both looked up as Dean and Sam approached.

"We just spotted him here like this," explained the man. "He's got blood all over and he's got the flu or something, I don't know. We already called 911."

The woman chimed in, talking to Dean while still patting Buddy's shoulder, "We were driving along and I said, Look, Moe, is that a coyote? He said, that's no coyote. I said, oh my god it's a person. He was just crawling along the shoulder here on his hands and knees. I said, we better stop and see if he's okay. He said, maybe he's just drunk. I said, who'd be drunk at six-thirty in the morning on the pass road? He said—"

"Yes yes yes," said Dean. "Thanks for stopping." He pushed the woman firmly to the side and knelt next to Buddy, Sam crouching on his heels beside him.

Buddy was leaning with his left side against the boulder, facing the road. There seemed to be a lot of blood on Buddy's face. He was panting rapidly in short, shallow gasps, and had both arms wrapped around his chest. But his eyes were open, and he was looking at Sam and Dean.

"I am unwell," he said to Dean, between pants. His voice was even hoarser than usual.

"Yeah, we kind of figured that out already," said Dean.

"I can't go with you." More panting. "I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about that," said Sam. "We can cover the hunt on our own."

"You know each other?" asked the pickup man, a note of hope in his voice. "Hunting buddies?"

"Yeah. Exactly. Hunting buddies," said Dean, briefly taking his eyes off Buddy to glance at the couple. "We were coming up here to meet him. We can take it from here. Thanks for stopping."

"We already called 911," said the woman. "They said, they'd send an ambulance immediately, from Jackson. They said, it'd take about fifteen minutes. They said—"

"Thanks," said Dean, adding firmly, "You can go now. We'll take care of him, don't worry."

The man nodded and began to tug the woman back to the pickup truck, and though she was clearly reluctant to leave the scene, he managed to persuade her back into the truck. Sam and Dean shot each other a relieved glance as the truck pulled away, for they needed to be able to talk freely with Buddy.

Dean said "How you doing there, Bud? Can I take a look?" Without really waiting for an answer, he put his hands on either side of Buddy's head and tilted his face gently up toward the sky, trying to determine where the blood on his face was coming from. Buddy blinked slowly and let his head lean into Dean's hands.

There was blood trickling steadily from his nose, and there blood was smeared all over his mouth and chin. Oddly, several of the scrapes on his face seemed to have started bleeding again too. And the bruises seemed much worse than Dean remembered. Dean assumed Buddy must have passed out for some reason and fallen on his face; this seemed the most obvious explanation for how his injuries could have suddenly gotten so much worse.

Dean realized that Buddy's skin also felt hot. Too hot. And his eyes seemed a little glassy, a little unfocused - indeed it looked pretty likely that he might have passed out. And he was shivering. Dean took a quick glance at what he was wearing: just thin jeans, a button-down shirt and a cheap cotton zip-up hoodie. Dean swore to himself, thinking, _He should have at least worn that damn jacket._

"You're definitely sick, Bud," said Dean. He removed his hands from Buddy's head, took his own coat off, and slung it across Buddy's shoulders. "You should have just stayed in the cabin, you dope. We would have come and got you."

"And we could have taken you to the hospital ourselves," put in Sam.

"You have to go... to the canyon," said Buddy, still panting. "Now. You go. I'll be fine."

"I'm not really trusting your definition of 'fine', Bud," said Dean.

Buddy drew a breath to say something. But his breath hitched as he tried to speak, and his face screwed up in pain.

Sam said, very quietly, "Dean. Listen." Dean listened, and after a moment he heard what Sam meant.

There was something wrong with Buddy's breathing.

Some sort of ticking, rasping sound was happening every time he inhaled, on every panting breath. Dean frowned. _Goddam. That cracked rib_, he thought. _He must have fallen on it too. Of all the luck._

"Let me see that rib, Bud," Dean said, reaching over to undo the buttons on Buddy's shirt. Buddy tried to shrink away, but Sam said, "We need to see. Just let us take a quick look." Dean carefully began unbuttoning all the buttons. Buddy gave up with a short sigh, leaning his head sideways against the boulder and closing his eyes. Sam and Dean exchanged a worried look; Buddy seemed _very _weak.

The sky was getting steadily brighter — a strip of pale yellow was glowing on the eastern horizon — and there was almost enough light now to see. But Dean still had to pull Buddy's shirt wide open to get a clear look. Sam turned his cell phone on to provide a little more light, and held it up toward Buddy's chest. Then they both just stared for a moment.

The _entire_ right side of Buddy's chest was almost solid black, like one enormous bruise, and it seemed strangely swollen. Sam moved his phone closer, and they saw that a section of Buddy's ribcage, under his right arm, was moving in a very strange way. It was _caving in_ each time Buddy breathed _in_, and then bulging out every time he exhaled.

It looked terribly, horribly wrong. And the strange noise that Sam had noticed was happening each time the section of ribs caved in. It was probably, Dean guessed, the sound of broken edges of rib-bone scraping past each other.

Buddy had opened his eyes again, so Dean kept his face carefully neutral. He folded Buddy's shirt closed, buttoned one button (he didn't want to touch Buddy's chest any more than he absolutely had to), and tucked the coat around him as gently as he could.

"Hurts," Buddy confessed, his head still leaning on the rock.

By the look in his eyes Dean guessed he meant, _Hurts like a motherfucker_.

"I know, Bud," said Dean. "You just hang in there. Hold on a sec, I gotta talk with Sam, okay? Back in a sec, okay?"

He stood and pulled Sam several yards away.

"He's pretty bad, Dean," Sam whispered, as quietly as he could. "I can't believe he was hiding this from us."

Dean nodded and muttered back, "We really should've made him go to the hospital last night." They both had their backs to Buddy, trying to keep their body language casual, their voices low. "Looks like he passed out and fell; must've made it worse. Don't suppose it could be a hex bag, though?"

"I checked the crucifix already, while you were looking at his face. Nothing. And, rib injuries can definitely get bad suddenly," Sam whispered. "They can stab into the lungs and stuff."

"Should we just throw him in the Impala and make a run for it?"

Sam shook his head and whispered, "Ambulance'll be here soon. They can take care of him better. And, Dean, they'll have oxygen."

Dean considered that, and nodded reluctantly. "Okay. Listen, can you run and grab a blanket or something, from his cabin? To wrap around him. Even if just for the next couple minutes. And check the cabin with the crucifix, y'know, just in case. And also, grab whatever it seems like he might want in the hospital. I think he's going to be there a while."

Sam nodded, Dean tossed him the keys, and Sam hopped in the Impala.

While Sam fired up the car and wheeled it onto the little road, Dean walked back to Buddy and knelt by his side again. "Sam's going to get you a blanket," he said cheerfully.

"You should both go. Canyon," said Buddy, lifting his head off the rock. "Now."

"You seriously think we're going to drive off right now and leave you alone here? Just leave you here bleeding all over the road like this?"

"Bigger... picture," insisted Buddy.

This phrase immediately made Dean annoyed. "Screw the bigger picture, Bud. The canyon can wait fifteen minutes." He couldn't resist adding, "Bud, you _really_ should have told us it was this bad."

"Wasn't." said Buddy. "It wasn't... this bad. I don't... understand. Got worse." The little speech seemed to exhaust him, and he leaned his head against the rock again.

A minute later Sam pulled up again in the Impala, and hopped out bearing an armful of fabric. He hurried over and set it all down: a wool blanket, Buddy's leather jacket, and also a plastic bag stuffed with some random clothes and a few paperback books. Dean glanced at Sam inquiringly, and Sam shook his head — apparently the crucifix hadn't picked up anything in the cabin. _  
_

Dean helped Sam shake out the blanket and wrap it around Buddy. As they tucked the blanket around him, Buddy said "Dean. Sam," looking back and forth between them. Once he saw he'd got their attention, he said something that sounded like "Ziff."

Again his breathing seemed to hitch and he had to stop talking for a moment, his eyes squeezed shut in pain. After it passed, he opened his eyes again and repeated, "Ziff...," but then had to stop and gasp for a few moments.

"Bud, you shouldn't be talking. Just try to rest," said Sam, patting his shoulder gently.

"Ziffy... us." insisted Buddy. A moment later he repeated it, making a great effort this time to pronounce it clearly: "Ziffy-us." Sam and Dean glanced at each other, puzzled. Buddy looked like he nearly wanted to cry from frustration, and finally he stretched out one hand to the ground and traced a Z in the dirt in front of him with one finger. Then he drew an I.

He was spelling something out. Sam and Dean watched as he wrote one word in the dirt:

ZIPHIUS

"Ziphius," whispered Buddy, looking up at them. Then: "Angel."

"Oh — the angel in Death Canyon?" said Sam. "That's the name of one of the angels?"

Buddy nodded.

"Got it. And where's the other orb?" said Dean. Buddy nodded to the side where his shoulder-bag lay, and Sam flipped it open and dug out the little bundle with the orb and the spell-ingredients, all wrapped up in a black cloth that turned out to have the sigil already drawn on it. Sam briefly checked that all the ingredients were there, rolled it back up, and stuffed it into his own coat pocket. He fished one more thing out of the bag, a coil of bright yellow line with a fairly convincing "Trail Closed" sign tied to it — something Buddy seemed to have made by hand.

"All set," reported Sam.

Dean turned back to Buddy with a smile. "See? We're all set. Oh and, one other thing. You're absolutely sure there are just two angels in this whole area? Exactly two? No more?"

Buddy nodded.

Dean felt a surge of relief. If there were only two angels in the area, and one was Ziphius, the other one really _had _to be Castiel. Buddy had said before that there were two angels, but Dean had been feeling weirdly worried about the Castiel-orb, so he'd wanted to doublecheck. Now he felt a little bit better.

But only a little bit.

"Be... careful," Buddy said, looking back and forth between both of them.

"We will be," said Sam.

"Promise," said Buddy, his gaze settling on Dean.

"I promise," said Dean. A feeling crept over him that this was a promise that Dean should take seriously, so he added, "I'll be extra careful. So will Sam. I promise."

Buddy gave a tiny nod, and then tried to say something more. But a harsh cough interrupted him. His face screwed in pain and he tucked his head down, his arms wrapping tightly around himself. Then another cough seized him, and another. Each cough sounded wetly horrible, as if things were tearing apart inside him. His face twisted in agony, his feet scuffing helplessly against the dirt.

Then he retched, pitching forward a bit. Dean thought he was about to throw up and tried to support him by putting an arm across his chest (high up, across his collarbones, trying to avoid the terrible broken area). But instead of vomiting, Buddy spat out a huge mouthful of blood. He did not make any move to right himself afterwards, but just hung there, leaning against Dean's arm, head hanging, blood dripping from his mouth. He was panting much faster now, as if he had just run up ten flights of stairs.

He whispered, "Can't... breathe."

Dean looked closely at Buddy's face. Even as he watched, Buddy got paler, his face whitening within the space of seconds. His face was slick with sweat now as well as blood, and he began gasping desperately, breathing in hopeless wheezing gasps. One hand came up to scrabble at his throat.

This was going _very _bad, _very _fast, and Dean didn't know what to do. It was becoming extremely clear that Buddy was not just sick, and did not just have a minor injury; Buddy was in terrible trouble.

Another set of coughs seized Buddy, more blood poured from his mouth, and Dean put both arms around him, trying to hold him together somehow. A ghastly, white-hot memory rushed into Dean's mind: holding Sam in his arms, all those years ago. Sam _dying,_ right in his arms; Sam's eyes glazing, unfocusing, his head sagging. His body going limp. His breath failing. And Dean totally unable to stop it.

Dean felt Buddy go limp in his arms, exactly as Sam once had, and his mind went almost completely blank with panic. "Sammy?" Dean said, his voice almost a squeak. "What do I do, what do I do?"

"Lie him down," ordered Sam, already reaching out to help. "Now. It'll get more blood to his head." Dean did so, lowering Buddy down as gently as he could. Dean tried to turn Buddy onto his back but Sam said sharply, "On his side, Dean, on his _side_, or he'll choke on the blood." Together they arranged him on his side, and Sam stuffed Buddy's jacket under his head as a makeshift pillow, turning his mouth a bit toward the ground. And just in time, for a moment later Buddy was wracked with another series of terrible, agonizing coughs, and he spat out another huge mouthful of blood. It looked like at least half a liter of blood, pouring from his mouth and puddling into the dirt.

"Where's that _friggin' ambulance_?" said Dean, tearing his eyes off Buddy for a moment to look down the road. "God-_friggin-dammit_!"

Sam said, "If they're not here in ten seconds we're throwing him in the Impala." Dean nodded, but just then, to his vast relief, he heard the faint wail of a siren. And, far down the hill, he saw flashing lights approaching.

Dean felt a tiny tug on his shirt, and looked down. Buddy was awake, and had managed to grab hold of the edge of Dean's shirt with one hand. He was looking up at Dean out of the corner of his eye.

"You just hang in there," said Dean. "You keep breathing. That's your job, okay? Keep breathing."

"Dean," whispered Buddy.

"Don't try to talk, Buddy," said Sam.

"Dean," he insisted. "Sorry."

"What?" said Dean.

"Dean-I'm-sorry," Buddy gasped out, making a single rapid word out of it.

"What the hell for?"

"Everything," said Buddy. "Everything."

Dean had no idea what he was talking about, but he knew Buddy was having some kind of desperate-last-words moment. He leaned down and put a hand on Buddy's head, stroking his sweaty hair back. "Stop talking. Keep breathing. You're going to be okay. You hear me?" Dean said. He kept stroking Buddy's hair, over and over. (It didn't occur to him that this was an oddly affectionate gesture to use with a man he'd met only two days ago.) "Keep breathing," Dean repeated. "You _have_ to keep breathing. That's an _order_. Do you understand me?"

Buddy gave a tiny nod.

At _last_, the ambulance wheeled around the last turn toward them, _finally_, its lights nearly blinding them, the siren suddenly deafening. Within moments it was right next to them, two paramedics jumping out with all kinds of equipment, peppering Sam and Dean with questions. They seemed larger than life and astonishingly efficient. The ambulance driver was already maneuvering the bulky vehicle around in a careful three-point turn to get it pointed back toward Jackson, while the paramedics briskly whisked the blanket and jackets out of the way, asked Buddy his name (he answered "Buddy" and refused to give a last name), inspected him from head to toe, scrutinized his chest with intense interest, and popped an oxygen mask on him. They were dropping all kinds of sterile plastic wrappings willy-nilly on the ground as they ripped open what seemed like hundreds of medical supplies, attaching various patches and needles and wires to Buddy.

At their request, Sam put Buddy's jacket and bag in the ambulance.

The paramedics managed to get Buddy onto a stretcher, hindered slightly by the fact that Buddy absolutely would not let go of the edge of Dean's shirt. He was still hanging on, with astonishing tenacity. He also kept trying to take his oxygen mask off with his other hand, trying to say something to Dean, despite both the paramedics ordering him repeatedly to keep still.

One of the paramedics started trying to pry Buddy's fingers free from Dean's shirt, and Buddy looked up at Dean with such despair that Dean begged the paramedic, "Just a sec. Just wait one second." He tried to think of some way to reassure Buddy enough so that he would let go voluntarily.

"We'll be fine. You'll be fine. Everything'll be fine!" Dean babbled. "We'll come see you tonight, okay?" Suddenly he thought of something better to say — something that would reassure Buddy. "And you don't need to worry at all about us. We've got _both_ angels covered. Bud — we already know the other angel's name. Actually we already set off my orb. We got both angels covered. We'll be fine. And these guys'll take care of you, and we'll come see you tonight."

Buddy frowned at him, puzzled.

"The other angel's Castiel," Dean explained. "We set off my orb earlier. Using Castiel's name."

Buddy's eyes went wide. He pulled hard on Dean's shirt, shaking his head, trying again to pull the oxygen mask off his face, and trying to speak, and trying to sit up, all at once. The effort was too much and he began coughing again. A moment later the oxygen mask was full of shockingly bright red blood — a much brighter red than the other blood had been. Buddy's eyes fluttered shut and he went limp, his bruised face going ash-grey, his hand finally falling away from Dean's shirt.

"Whoa, that's arterial. MOVE!" said one of the paramedics. They shoved Dean out of the way and fairly threw Buddy into the ambulance. In three seconds the ambulance was disappearing down the hill, its siren blaring.

For a long second Dean and Sam were left standing there in silence. The sun had just come above the horizon and the world seemed suddenly bright with light, the woods around them lovely and green, the sky glowing in bands of pink and lemon-yellow. Dean looked down at the ground. It was covered with puddles of blood that were soaking into the dirt, and a litter of the little plastic wrappers that the paramedics had left. A light breeze picked up, and several plastic wrappers began to roll away in the breeze. A bright beam of sunshine was shining directly on Dean's coat, which lay in the dirt, splashed with bright red blood.

* * *

Dean fished his jacket off the ground and bolted to the Impala, Sam right behind him. As soon as Sam was seated, Dean gunned the car down the winding pass road while Sam buckled in. Dean pushed the Impala pretty hard, and in only a minute they'd caught up to the ambulance.

Dean tucked the Impala right up behind the ambulance, shadowing it tightly.

It was a frustratingly long drive to the Jackson hospital, and Dean was increasingly glad that Buddy was in an ambulance, hopefully getting some oxygen, rather than just lying in the back of the Impala. He tailed the ambulance all the way to Jackson, and when they came to the turn that headed north to the park, Dean ignored it and kept following the ambulance.

Sam was shifting around in the passenger seat, fiddling with the window-crank and running his hands through his hair. Dean felt sure he was going to say something like, "We really have to go to Death Canyon and try to save the world again, instead of going to the hospital with this guy we don't even really know who's probably going to die anyway."

Dean waited, but Sam didn't say anything.

"I _know _we should be going to Death Canyon, all right? Blocking off the hiking trail and all. I _know_!" Dean burst out. He took a tight corner through a red light right on the heels of the ambulance. "Bigger friggin' picture! Magma explosion! Goddam Apocalypse! Priorities! I _know_! I _get it_!"

"That wasn't at all what I was going to say," said Sam.

"Well, it's what Buddy would say. But we cannot abandon him, Sam, we just _can't._ Or I just can't, at least," Dean said. "Sam, there is _no frigging way _that I am going to abandon him again."

Sam looked over at him. "What do you mean, 'again'?" he asked.

"Oh, crap. I don't know. I misspoke."

They'd come into a thick part of town now, and the ambulance had to slow down at each red light now, pausing just enough to be sure the cross-traffic had stopped before it cruised on through. Each time it slowed, Dean swore and pounded the steering wheel.

Sam was very still now, looking at Dean.

Sam said, slowly, "There is something... _weird_ about Buddy. I mean, something weird about the way we're both reacting to him."

"Jesus holy effing christ on a stick, Sam, do you have to nerd out _right now_ about this? _Seriously_?"

"We just met the guy thirty-six hours ago, Dean, and you are as messed up right now as I have _ever_ seen you. As messed up as when Bobby d—"

"SAM. NOT. NOW. " Dean barked, and Sam shut his mouth. The ambulance was pulling into the emergency-room loading bay, the Impala right behind. Dean pulled into a free spot and cut the motor and they both jumped out.

"It's not just you, Dean. I feel it too," said Sam quietly.

"Later," said Dean. They both fell silent, watching the ER team whisk Buddy out of the ambulance and away, deep into the ER, shouting mysterious phrases like "flail chest" and "pneumothorax" to each other. A staff nurse found them later and asked them all sorts of questions about Buddy, and Dean was startled to realize they didn't know _anything_ about him. They didn't know his real name, his age, where he was from, if he had any family who should be contacted — nothing.

Soon a kindly grey-haired volunteer had directed them to a bland, empty waiting room filled with a line of little upholstered chairs. A tv mounted in the corner was tuned to a weather forecaster talking excitedly about the year's first freeze. There was a vending machine in the opposite corner, and Dean stood in front of it for a while, staring at the little bags of chips and pretzels. Sam sat in a chair and began looking something up on his phone.

"Pneumothorax means a collapsed lung," Sam said a few minutes later, reading something off his phone. "Flail chest is when a bunch of ribs are all broken in two places, so there's a part of the chest wall that gets disconnected from the rest of the chest, and it kind of all goes the wrong way when you breathe. I guess it destroys the whole way breathing works."

"He's going to be fine," said Dean.

"It says here," said Sam slowly, "that it's extremely painful and there's very high mort—"

"I _said_, he's going to be _fine_, you _got that?_" Dean said, spinning on Sam.

Sam looked up at him.

"Sorry," said Dean, sitting down next to him. "Sorry."

"S'okay," said Sam, slumping down in his chair and clicking his phone off. "I just wanted to understand what's happening."

"You're right, I am kind of... losing it a bit."

"I know. It's okay."

"It feels like my best friend is dying, Sam," said Dean, baffled. "I don't understand. I just met the guy."

"I know."

An hour passed in absolute silence. Sam was making a series of tiny little notes on a pad of paper that he'd borrowed from one of the nurse's desks, and Dean had taken to walking back over to the ER front desk every two minutes to see if they had any more news.

Dean kept checking his watch. Buddy had told them that hikers usually started showing up at the trailhead around ten in the morning, and Dean watch the time creep past eight-thirty, and past eight-forty-five, and past nine.

Finally, after an hour and a half of no news, Dean tapped Sam on the shoulder and said, "We gotta go."

Sam looked up at him. "You sure?"

"He'll be so pissed at us if we let another hiker die." Dean added, "Plus, if the caldera blows, he's a goner anyway."

Sam nodded. He gathered up his pad of notes and stuck it in his pocket.

They checked at the ER front desk one more time, but didn't learn anything new: Buddy was "fighting", he was "getting the best care possible," the team was "doing all they can." This was exactly what the desk staff had been telling Dean since the moment the ambulance had arrived. Dean slammed his fist down on the desk — so loudly that everybody within twenty feet jumped — and turned and stalked out of the main doors. Sam said a hurried apology to the staff, and ran to catch up with Dean. They got in the Impala and Dean drove it out of the hospital parking lot, gunning it unnecessarily hard. The tires screeched as he pulled onto the main drag through town and whipped the Impala in a tight turn to the north, toward the park, toward Death Canyon.

* * *

_A/N - _

_Thanks again for all your thoughtful reviews! So glad the story has found an audience and that people seem to like it._

_I believe the story has about eight more chapters coming. (update: or slightly more.) If you liked or have comments, please review! Reviews are my only reward and it turns out I'm a hopeless review junkie. _


	11. A Walk In The Woods

_A/N - Flew from the conference in Texas back to frigid Boston yesterday and spent the entire flight writing this for you all._ _Bit of a long one; hope __you enjoy._

* * *

They sped northward toward the park entrance. Dean floored the gas as they charged up the long hill that led to the park, and the Impala popped up over the crest of the hill with so much momentum it almost went airborne. A huge herd of bison was grazing in the wide plain to the east, but Dean paid no attention at all to them. They zipped past a series of four signs along the roadway, one after the other, that read:

_"Wildlife crossing"_

_"Means go slow"_

_"That bull moose"_

_"Is some cow's beau"_

Dean blitzed past all four signs at a cool 85 miles an hour.

Sam started to say "Dean—"

"ALL RIGHT! I KNOW!" snapped Dean. "I'm just trying to get to the damn trailhead, okay?"

"Look, I know you're worried about Buddy. So am I," said Sam, his hands raised in placation. "And the caldera and everything. But you _have _to cool down, Dean. You know it's bad luck to go into a hunt when you're not thinking straight." He added, "Besides, you promised Buddy we would both be careful. Extra careful, you said. I was right there; I heard you. And extra careful means slowing down and not killing us before we even get there, for one thing. And also, thinking through the plan."

Dean glanced over at Sam with a fierce scowl. But a moment later he took his foot off the gas, and the Impala gradually slowed to a more reasonable speed.

"Guess it wouldn't be a good idea to hit a buffalo," he grumbled.

"Bison, actually."

"Don't you _ever _turn off of nerd mode?"

Sam just smiled.

"Okay! Okay. You're right." said Dean. He made himself take a deep breath. "Okay, let's go over the plan." They'd agreed on most of the plan last night, but they were running behind schedule now. Dean thought a moment. "How about this. We drive to the Death Canyon trailhead first and put up the damn trail-closed signs immediately, because we're late about that. That should keep the hikers out. Then regroup a bit, go grab some water, some snacks maybe?"

Sam nodded. "Food's probably a good idea. Been kind of a stressful morning."

"You could say that, yeah," said Dean, sighing. "Then we set off the Ziphius orb. Then, we hike to the meadow, use the crucifix to figure out which house they're in. Then, assuming we can figure out the right building, Ziphius and Castiel should both be out of it, so it'll be down to two demons. We've got the holy-water spritzers, the demon-knife and plenty of salt rounds and all our usual stuff, and we just go do our thing. Business as usual. Gank the demons. Gank the angels too if we get a chance, if they're even still alive." Dean paused, and added, "Then we deal with Mr. Magma." This part of the plan was perhaps a bit vague, but Dean soldiered on. "Then we drive straight back here and check in on Buddy. Sound good? In and out while the orbs are still working, right?"

"And just pray Mr. Magma's not a major factor right now."

"Yeah. That's the wild card. We'll just have to jump off that bridge when we come to it," said Dean.

Sam snickered. Dean glanced at him, and then realized what he'd said.

"I meant, cross that bridge," Dean amended sheepishly. He started to laugh too, and for a few minutes they couldn't stop laughing. "Jump right into the magma, probably," said Sam and for some reason this seemed hysterically funny to both of them, and all they could do was laugh.

For a moment, at least, while they were laughing, Dean was able to forget about Buddy.

Forget about the way the blood had just _poured _out of Buddy's mouth. Forget about the way Buddy had been looking up at him, the way he had been clinging to the edge of Dean's shirt with the very last of his strength.

For a moment, Dean thought maybe he could even stop puzzling over why Buddy, when he thought he was dying, would have thought that the very most important thing he could say, his very last words, should be:

_Dean, I'm sorry._

Dean had stopped laughing by now. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, concentrating, trying to chase down one of those elusive little minnow-thoughts in his mind. And once again, the world seemed to fade, and once again Dean heard that hauntingly familiar voice, coming from a million miles away. This time it was saying:

_I'm going to find some way to redeem myself to you. I mean it._

"DEAN!" Sam was yelling. "Wake the fuck up!"

Dean snapped awake. He'd almost veered off the road, and Sam had had to grab the wheel. "Shit. Sorry about that," said Dean, straightening out the car. He kept going at a sedate pace, a model driver suddenly, taking the turn into the park at exactly the speed limit of thirty-five miles an hour, both hands on the wheel in a perfect ten-and-two position.

"What the hell was that, Dean?"

Dean shrugged. "Just spaced out a bit. Sorry."

"Jesus, Dean. Are you really ready for this?"

Dean glanced over at Sam, chastened. "Honestly I don't know. But it's not like we have a choice, do we?"

"Shit, Dean," said Sam, running a hand through his hair. "If we can just get through today alive, I'll be... well, I'll be surprised."

"You and me both," said Dean.

They came to the turnoff of the unpaved road that led far into the south end of the Tetons. The road to Death Canyon.

Both brothers fell silent as they drove up the same rutted road they'd been on two days ago. They came to the place where they'd first spotted the elk, and Dean couldn't help slowing as they both peered around cautiously. But no animals appeared this time. It seemed just a peaceful, sunny fall day.

They continued along the road, bouncing their way across ruts and over long stretches of washboard, the car's springs squeaking in complaint, till they came to a little parking lot. Though "parking lot" seemed generous for what was really just a stretch of lumpy dried mud, but this was indeed where the road ended. Just ahead of them was a little bulletin board with a trail map, and they could just see the beginning of a narrow footpath that headed into the woods.

They had arrived at the trailhead.

"Well, at least there aren't any other cars here yet. First good news all day," remarked Sam. "Hopefully that means no hikers have gone up the trail yet."

They strung up Buddy's "Trail Closed" sign across the trail. Sam added a carefully hand-lettered "Recent Grizzly Attacks" to the bottom of the sign, just to further dissuade any would-be hikers. Meanwhile, Dean pulled a few small fallen trees, loose branches and other obstacles across the trail till it was well barricaded and looked genuinely closed.

They headed back to the teepee restaurant, going this time into the little grocery store next door and buying several bottles of water and sandwiches, along with a half-dozen little bags of M&M's for Dean, and a bag of trail mix for Sam.

When they got back outside, Sam went to gas up the Impala at a set of tiny gas pumps a few dozen feet away. Dean got a cup of coffee and sat on a wooden park bench just outside the store, trying to soak up a bit of sunshine and take a moment to recharge.

He decided to pre-fuel himself with one bag of M&M's, and then stuffed two more bags of M&M's in his coat pocket, for fuel on the trail. His fingers encountered something round, smooth, and warm. The Castiel-orb.

A thought floated through his mind: Why had Buddy reacted so strongly when Dean told him about the Castiel-orb?

But as soon as the thought floated up — the very moment Dean tried to hold the name "Castiel" in his mind simultaneously with an image of Buddy's face — he felt a sudden sharp stab of pain in his forehead. He grimaced and put a hand to his head. All his thoughts seemed to stall for a moment, and then everything flickered back to life, like a computer quickly rebooting.

A moment later all he was thinking was: _Can I fit three bags of M&M's in my pocket, or just two?_

Three, it turned out.

Sam drove the Impala back over from the gas pumps, parked it by Dean, and went off to pay for the gas. Dean sat and sipped his coffee. Without really consciously thinking about it, he found his hand sliding into his coat pocket again, feeling its way through the bags of M&M's to the round warm marble.

A thought floated through his mind: Why had Buddy reacted so strongly when Dean told him about the Castiel-orb?

Dean felt an abrupt and dizzying wave of deja-vu. Hadn't he _just had that exact same thought_? Why had he forgotten it before? He tried to think about it, and again the question seemed to slip away from him.

"You constipated or something?" Sam asked, walking back over, holding his own cup of coffee. Dean realized he had his eyes screwed shut and his fists clenched.

It just seemed to take such a strange amount of effort to think about this _one simple question_ about Buddy and Castiel.

"Sam," Dean said, struggling mightily to maintain his concentration. "Could we have made a mistake about Castiel? About the first orb? Buddy looked so worried when I mentioned Castiel's name."

Sam paused in mid-sip, his hand frozen, the cup tilted toward his mouth.

Then he slowly lowered his styrofoam cup, looking thoughtful. "I've been thinking about that. I can't figure it out, though. It's sort of... hard to think about, somehow."

"Isn't it, though," said Dean. But now that Dean had actually spoken the question out loud, it suddenly became much easier to think about, as if he'd successfully broken through some kind of foggy mental barrier. "Coulda been coincidence," said Dean. "He might have been just about to cough up a lung anyway, like, he felt the cough coming on, or the arteries tearing or whatever the hell was happening to him, and panicked about that, and it just happened to be right when I mentioned the orb."

Sam looked at him. "Do you believe that?"

"Not really, no," Dean admitted. "I think he freaked because of what I said. But why?"

Sam said, "What's funny is, we already know that he hates Castiel's guts, right? He's obviously got a major grudge against the guy. So why would he even care?"

Dean thought a moment, and said, "Sam ... do you think there's any chance we could be wrong about Castiel being the second angel? We know, _for sure_, that Castiel is here. And if one angel is this Ziphius the other one _has _to be Castiel. I mean, it _has _to be Castiel, right? The math's pretty damn simple."

Sam said, "I keep coming to the same conclusion." He finished his coffee and tossed the cup in a nearby trash can. He looked grim. "I feel like we're walking into a trap though. I really don't like how this feels."

Dean folded his arms and leaned back on the bench, staring across the parking lot at the great snowy mountains that were sprawled in front of them. The Tetons stretched to the left and the right in serrated ridges as far as the eye could see, like a jagged snowy wall across the entire western horizon. But Dean had his eyes on two mountains in particular; not the biggest ones, but just two that had a little gap between them. That little gap was Death Canyon.

"You were right, you know," said Dean, "About what I said to Buddy. I did promise him we'd be extra careful_._" Dean's mouth twisted. "And you know what Dad used to say — extra careful means listening to your gut. And my gut is telling me, something's wrong."

Sam said suddenly, "Here's an idea. Say... jeez, Dean. What if Castiel _left? _Left the park. Left this whole area, left Wyoming. Suppose he left just recently, right after I checked with Charlene. And say a different angel took his place here."

"Well, that would be a complete and total bummer, wouldn't it," said Dean, "Because we'd have wasted that orb." He sat up suddenly and looked at Sam. "Jeez. Maybe that's it. That would explain why Buddy looked so panicked. He'd have realized _we wasted the orb._"

They stared at each other for a moment. Sam pulled out his phone.

Five minutes later Sam hung up. They'd been lucky; Sam had actually reached Charlene, and after some delicate negotiation, some very awkward flirting (with Dean rolling his eyes the whole time and trying to pantomime what Sam should say) and finally a promise of a triple fee, Sam had convinced her to do one more location-check, immediately, on the angel Castiel.

They sat on the bench by the Impala, waiting for her to call back, talking a bit more about whether there was anything else they could do to be "extra careful." Then Dean got another cup of coffee, and decided to pre-fuel himself a little more with some more M&M's. He took out the Castiel-orb and stared at it for a while, and looked at the mountains again.

He felt a little nervous to have the Castiel-orb just rolling around in his pocket loose, so he stuck it in an empty M&M's bag (he seemed to have several available by now), folded the end of the bag neatly and tucked it back in his pocket.

Sam just sat on the little wooden bench next to him, flipping through the pad of paper that he'd had at the hospital, looking over his mysterious little list of notes. He glanced at Dean, who was now staring vacantly at the horizon, with one hand still in his coat pocket. Sam frowned and added something to his notes.

They both jumped when Sam's phone rang. Sam snatched it up. "Yeah, Charlene?" he asked eagerly. "You get anything?" A pause. "Uh huh. You're sure? Really? Hey, um, Charlene, not that I don't trust you or anything, but, how accurate are these kind of spells? Is there any way this could be wrong?" He listened for a moment. "Okay. No, I believe you. Thanks, Charlene, we really owe you."

Sam hung up and said to Dean, "He's still here. She still says Castiel is in or near Grand Teton National Park, or maybe in Jackson Hole. And she says the spell she uses is un-foolable if you have just the right bloodline or something, which she says she has. I guess it's a family specialty. She's certain."

"Jackson Hole? Isn't that the town?"

"No, the town is just called Jackson, jeez, Dean, haven't you been paying any attention? We've driven through it like eight times now."

Dean shrugged.

Sam explained, "Jackson Hole is the whole huge valley here we've been driving around. It includes the town of Jackson and also Moose and also some other little towns and also part of the park. Basically, Charlene couldn't quite pin down this time whether he's in the mountains or the valley exactly."

"Thanks for the geography lesson, brainiac. But I'm taking it that the point is, it's the same basic answer: Castiel's still definitely in the area."

"Yup."

"Well, I guess that's good news, right? Because we didn't waste the orb," said Dean. "But now I don't know what the hell Buddy was so bothered about. Maybe he did just feel an artery tearing or something godawful. Poor guy." Dean sighed, chucked his coffee cup in the trash and walked back over to the Impala, Sam following.

"We'll just have to ask Buddy later what was wrong," said Sam.

"And he'll give us one of those funny looks and won't answer," said Dean.

Sam snorted.

* * *

It was nearly eleven by the time they got back to the trailhead. Dean found a spot to hide the Impala behind a thick, bushy cluster of spruce trees, and then Sam unrolled the black cloth and got the orb and ingredients out. Dean kicked some spruce cones out the way to make a flattish spot on the ground, Sam spread out the sigil-cloth, and they carefully laid the second orb, the second Peruvian potato, and all the other spell-ingredients in their places.

Sam went through the whole incantation again, and this time Dean said "Ziphius" at the end. The new orb blazed with light, just as the first orb had. Again the Peruvian potato disappeared and the other items were reduced to ash.

Dean said "That's two angels down." He picked up the Ziphius orb and studied it. It looked much like the first one, swirling with white fog. "Okay. Let's get going."

Sam popped the Impala's trunk and stowed away the sigil-cloth, and they began to check their gear and doublecheck all their weapons and ammo. Pistols loaded with silver bullets, shotguns loaded with salt ("Loaded for demons!" said Dean), water-spritzers with holy water, the angel-blades, several crucifixes around their necks, the demon-knife... and several other weapons just for luck.

Dean had been planning to leave both the orbs in the Impala. They didn't really need to carry the orbs with them, and it had also become clear to Dean that fewer angel-orbs in his coat pocket meant more room for M&M's. So he put both angel-orbs in the trunk, nestling them into the sigil-cloth.

And then he picked them both up and put them in his pocket again. And then put them in the trunk again. And picked them up again. And put them down.

Something was still bothering him about the Castiel-orb.

_I promised Buddy we'd be extra careful_, thought Dean. _Extra careful means listening to your gut. _

He picked up the Castiel-orb, which was still folded up in its M&M bag, and put it in his pocket, leaving the Ziphius-orb in the trunk.

Then he closed the trunk and slung his pack on his back. "These boots were made for walkin'," announced Dean, "And that's just what they'll do." He strode toward the trail. He could hear Sam's semi-exasperated huff of laughter behind him, and called over his shoulder, "Gotta always have a slick exit line, Sammy."

* * *

Dean had never much been one for outdoor hobbies. Chasing demons had always seemed like all the exercise he needed, and after a few run-ins with wendigos, haunted-lake-ghosts, and the like, he'd found he had little desire to walk around in the wilderness for fun.

But he had to admit the scenery here was spectacular. They were walking right between two towering mountains, one to the north and one to the south, both frosted with snow. They loomed overhead like giants; serene, implacable, immense. In comparison the trees beside the trail seemed human-scale, almost friendly, like personal acquaintances. Every tree was a little bit different — some glowing with bright-red fall colors, some bare-branched already, some a cartoonishly vivid yellow, all interspersed with puffy-looking dark conifers. There were brightly colored fall leaves scattered all over the trail.

It was actually rather pleasant, just following the trail as it wound in and out through the colorful trees, with Sam walking along just behind him. Dean was still intensely worried about Buddy, of course, but there was nothing he could do about that, and he'd managed to shove it into a corner of his mind for now. And he was also _very_ nervous about what they would find in the buildings in the meadow. But it actually seemed to help to be moving, to be walking through the woods, seeing the changing landscape come into view.

His breathing fell into a comfortable rhythm, and his heart rate steadied. It felt good to actually _do_ something with all the adrenaline instead of just stewing in it.

He found himself thinking _Just wish Buddy were here with us too_, and clamped down hard on the thought, shoving it away.

Sam seemed to be having one of his creepy psychic moments, because just then he said, "Dean. About Buddy."

"He's going to be fine," said Dean automatically.

"I meant, about what I said before."

Dean sighed. "Ok, what?" he said grudgingly, over his shoulder, still walking. "That stuff about how we're reacting?"

"Yeah. There's a lot of little things, Dean. Like..." Dean heard a rustling of paper, and looked over his shoulder to see Sam pulling his little pad of paper out of his pocket — the list of notes he'd been making at the hospital.

"Oh my _god_. You actually brought your _notes_ on a _hunt_?" said Dean. He stopped and turned fully around just so he could give Sam a sufficiently appalled look. "I cannot _believe_ I am related to you."

"Just hear me out," said Sam, spreading his hands in appeal. Dean shrugged and grumbled, "Okay. You got two minutes, nerd-boy."

"Dean, the reason I made a list, and the reason I brought it, is because we have gotten stupid."

"Speak for yourself, Mr. I-Have-To-Bring-My-Notes-On-A-Hunt."

"No, Dean, I'm serious. We have gotten _really _stupid the last couple of days. We aren't noticing things we should notice. We're forgetting things. Both of us. We're overlooking really obvious stuff. It's just like with the memories. Something'll start bothering me, or something'll catch my attention, and two seconds later I've forgotten _all about it_. I started writing it all down in the hospital just to try to keep it straight." Sam looked very serious.

He said, more gently, "The same thing's been happening to you, Dean. I can see it. You have these spacey moments. What just happened in the car back there, that was just the latest of, like, two dozen times that you've gone all spacey. Just in the last couple days."

Dean opened his mouth to argue, and then slowly shut it again.

Sam was right. Dean knew it. He'd felt his thoughts sliding around recently, things catching his attention and then the thoughts just... fading away.

Sam glanced down at the list. "I made this damn list because it's the only way I can keep it straight and not just immediately forget it all. And Dean, _these are all things about Buddy. _Buddy is making us spacey, somehow. There's things about him we should be noticing, things we should be talking about, that we are not noticing."

Dean said unwillingly, "Like what?"

"Well, just starting at the top of the list here, here's the very first thing I wrote down," Sam said. He held the pad of paper out toward Dean, and Dean leaned over to see a little scrawl that read:

_"1. Why did we trust him?"_

Sam said, "Dean, we both trusted Buddy _immediately_. Here's a guy that was literally _breaking into your car_, something we would usually _kill _someone for, and after all of two minutes talking to him, you're holstering your gun? And I'm giving him back his blade? And we're letting him just walk away? When we don't know him at all and we don't know anyone to vouch for him and he's refused to tell us his name?"

Dean said weakly, "But it just seemed like..." He trailed off. "It seemed like..."

But he couldn't come up with a rational justification.

Sam said, "It just seemed like we could trust him, right?"

Dean nodded.

"Yeah, exactly," said Sam. "That's my point."

Dean frowned and looked down at the drifts of fallen leaves on the trail.

He took a deep breath, and said, "What's your next thing?"

Sam glanced down at his list. "Number two, we immediately started going to him for help. The earthquake hits and the very first thing you think of is, let's go talk to Buddy. We talk to that geologist and you're immediately all, let's go talk to Buddy."

"But—" protested Dean again. "It just seemed like..." He realized he was repeating himself, and closed his mouth.

"It just seemed like he could help us? Is that what you were going to say?" Sam said. "And he did. The thing is, he really did. He went _way _out on a friggin' limb for us. Gave us the little orb thing. He only has two of those, they're goddam _weapons of Heaven, _they're each probably worth ten zillion dollars, he met us literally the day before and he _gives _us one?"

Dean's head began to hurt.

"Next thing," went on Sam relentlessly, glancing down at his list.

Dean interrupted, "How many things do you have on that list?"

"Twenty-four."

"Jesus," said Dean. He turned and began walking up the trail.

"Dean, you can't just ignore this."

"I'm not ignoring it," said Dean. "It's just, my head hurts, Sam. I start to get a headache whenever I try to think about this stuff."

"That's number fourteen on my list," said Sam, following closely behind him. "Headaches. I'm getting them too."

"So... what are you getting at? Are you saying Buddy's a bad guy? That he's doing, I don't know, he's mind-controlling us or something?"

"I don't think he's a bad guy. He's been trying all along to keep us safe. But I do think there's a _reason_ we knew we could trust him. What if he... what if..." Sam paused. "I was just wondering if..."

Dean stopped and turned to face Sam again. He said, "You've obviously got a theory. Spit it out."

Sam hesitated for a long moment and then blurted out, "I think he's the guy in the coat. I think he's the guy in our dreams."

Dean just looked at him.

Sam said, waving his little pad of paper around for emphasis, "Dean, the last two nights, my dream changed. The guy in the coat who walks away, it's Buddy now. It was definitely him. He stopped and turned and looked back at me, and it was Buddy. I had the dream three damn times in a row. He still won't tell me what his name is — which, just by the way, the _real _Buddy also won't do — but now he looks right at me, and he shakes my hand even, and it's Buddy. Wearing that tan overcoat."

"He showed up in my dream too. Last night," confessed Dean.

They both stood in silence for a few moments, looking at each other, standing there in the drifts of yellow and red leaves. Sam looked tired and worried; Dean just felt massively confused.

Dean said, feeling very slow and stupid, "But he has the wrong coat."

"I know, that's puzzling me too." Then Sam laughed. "Funny, isn't it. All this freaky stuff and the thing we get hung up on is the damn coat."

They started walking again. The trail widened out enough here for them to walk side by side.

"But _why_?" said Dean. His head was still hurting.

"I don't know," said Sam. "I'm just certain he's the guy in our dreams." He sighed. "I feel like I have hold of only half of it, and not the other half. There's some other big piece I'm missing. But what I do know is, we have some kind of weird connection with the guy, and something is making it very difficult for us to think about it clearly." He stuffed his notes back in his pocket, his head down, looking a bit glum. "I just wanted to mention it now, just in case... Well. You know."

_Just in case I die and you survive_, he meant. _Just in case you end up alone and have to deal with this by yourself_.

But it was against the rules to say this. So Dean and Sam just walked along side by side for a while.

By unspoken agreement they dropped the topic for now, so that they could just enjoy their last few minutes before the hunt. Right now, at least, they were both alive, and they were walking along together, side by side, on a lovely fall day.

Dean began kicking through the drifts of yellow leaves. They came to an extra-big patch of leaves and Dean remembered one particular fall, long ago, when Sammy had been just a little boy, and Dean had raked together a huge pile of leaves for Sammy to jump into. In the back yard of whatever little motel their dad had parked them at that month.

Dean charged through the leaves on the trail now, with a bit of forced enthusiasm. But Sam came running right after him, kicking red and yellow leaves into the air too, and suddenly the forced enthusiasm became real, and they were just playing in the leaves together. They started showering each other with armfuls of leaves. Then Sam started chasing Dean down the trail, pelting him with pinecones and leaves, both of them laughing.

"Whoa," said Sam, stopping short suddenly. "Dean." Dean stopped and looked back, still breathing hard. Sam pointed to his right, to the north side of the trail.

Instead of the thick wall of trees that they'd been passing, they could now see glints of sky and grass in between the trees.

They'd reached the meadow.

* * *

They worked their way through some scratchy underbrush, and soon they came to the edge of a wide scrubby meadow. It stretched ahead of them for several miles, and there were several wooden structures in the distance. Old-style wooden ranch buildings with long, low rooflines, and some little cabins, and a couple of big square buildings with stone basements.

"Crucifix time!" Dean whispered. Sam was already digging it out of his pocket.

It was a slow process checking all the buildings. They stayed back in the trees to keep out of view, working their way around the perimeter of the entire meadow. The crucifix was doing a lazy counterclockwise spin everywhere they tested it, just as it had at the USGS offices, but Sam eventually noticed that it spun slightly faster when they neared the northern end of the meadow. There were four buildings here at the north end. They edged closer to the four buildings, checking one building at a time, braving their way into the meadow a bit for each one, while still trying to stay in clumps of trees whenever possible.

The whole process took them over an hour. But at last, as they were approaching a square, two-story wooden house, one of the ones with a stone basement, the crucifix started spinning faster. Much faster.

They backed up into the trees and took a brief break, drinking some water. Dean chugged down another pack of M&M's for energy, and Sam gulped down some trail mix.

Then they both got out their angel-blades, and unbuttoned their shirts.

"Make it pretty, now," said Sam, gritting his teeth. "If this is gonna leave a scar it better be perfect."

Dean took his angel-blade and carefully began carving an angel-banishing sigil into the skin of Sam's chest. Sam hissed with pain, but held still. Once Dean was done, Sam cut an identical sigil onto Dean's chest.

It was an idea Dean had come up with while waiting for Charlene's call. He'd kept thinking _I promised Buddy we'd be extra careful_. Extra careful meant listening to your gut, and his gut was telling him, the angels were going to be a problem. Even despite the orbs.

"How the hell did you even come up with this idea?" said Sam, finishing Dean's sigil and wiping the blade clean.

"I don't know. Wasn't there somebody who did this once? Somebody we knew?" said Dean.

"I definitely would have remembered if I'd _ever_ seen anybody do this," said Sam. They tucked the angel-blades back into their belts, left their shirts unbuttoned and zipped their coats partway up, just enough to cover the sigils.

Dean said, "So, new plan is, the first moving thing we spot, you blast it with salt and I use my sigil. If it's a demon, the salt will hurt it, and if it's an angel, which it shouldn't be, but if it is, it'll be blown away."

Sam nodded. Dean went on, "Then we take a second to do recon and figure out what's what. You try not to use your sigil unless you really have to, so we don't waste it. And if we get any luck we can start drawing new sigils and wards and stuff on the walls."

It was a decent plan, and Dean started to feel almost like it might work.

Though there was still the wild card, of course, of the unknown Mr. Magma.

"Ready?" said Dean. Sam nodded.

They crept up to the house. Nothing happened; nobody was in sight, no wild animals attacked. It seemed eerily quiet. It was mid-afternoon now, still a lovely day, puffy clouds sailing through the blue sky overhead, a breeze rustling through the tall grasses of the meadow. It seemed almost peaceful; It was hard to imagine there was something truly evil in the quiet old building.

They got right up to the front door without incident, and tiptoed up a couple of steps to the door. Dean looked at Sam. Sam shrugged and nodded, and Dean tried the doorknob.

It was unlocked.

This immediately felt bad. It felt like a trap. _But_, Dean thought, _we used the two orbs, we doublechecked about Castiel, we have the sigils. __We've done all we can_. He had one hand ready on the zipper of his coat — with the demon-blade also wedged into the same hand, in case there was a demon to deal with immediately. He glanced behind him; Sam had his shotgun ready.

Dean swung the door open and slipped in quickly, stepping immediately to the side so that Sam could dart in right behind him.

"Do come in, children," said a cheerful voice. A man was sitting in an easy chair in a corner of the room.

Dean immediately pulled his coat open, and started to slap his other hand to the sigil. Sam got off a round with his shotgun, and the rock salt blasted the man directly in the face just as the man lifted up one hand.

And in the next moment, Dean could not move at all. He was frozen like a statue, his coat open, his hand just _inches _away from his chest. But he could not move his hand even half an inch closer. He couldn't turn his head. He couldn't even blink.

The man quirked a finger; and Dean felt his left hand opening, against his will, and felt the demon-blade drop out of it, and heard it clatter to the floor. The man quirked his finger again, and Dean heard another, louder clatter to his side, and knew Sam had dropped his shotgun.

The man stood from his chair. He was quite tall — almost as tall as Sam. He was lean and pale, with an elegant sculpted face framed by long, shining blond hair that was tucked back behind his ears. He was wearing a snappy-looking pinstripe suit and a fedora. The overall effect was rather bizarre, like a Lord-of-the-Rings elf slumming it as a thirties Chicago mobster. But he was undeniably handsome.

The rock salt had torn his suit and scratched up his face, but as Dean watched, sickened, the man's face healed right before his eyes. A few moments later the man looked as healthy as could be, his handsome face perfect and unmarred. Even his suit had magically repaired itself.

_That is a full-strength angel_, Dean thought, his heart dropping through the floor. _Full-strength._

The elf-gangster-angel said politely, "Such a pleasure to have you both here. I've been waiting for you. I've been watching you approach, actually. I had planned originally to fly you here directly from the trail, but you seemed to be enjoying your hike." He smiled at them sweetly. "You both looked so happy running through those leaves. I found I just couldn't bear to spoil your last moments of freedom."

He added, "But I'm being a poor host — do forgive me. I haven't offered you any refreshments yet!" He turned to gesture toward a side table, which had a crystal pitcher of water and two glasses. "You must be thirsty. Would either of you like a drink of water?"

Dean found he could move his head now, and he shook his head no.

The angel shrugged, and walked over to Sam. Dean was able to turn his head to watch, and saw Sam standing frozen a few feet away, his face white. The man slowly pulled down the zipper on Sam's coat and looked at the bloody sigil.

"Now we just can't have that, can we," the angel murmured, lifting his hand to the side of Sam's head. Sam darted a miserable look at Dean, and Dean gritted his teeth. _God, no, please_, he thought. _Please, please, please. _

_Please help me, please help me, please__ help me_, Dean thought, in a sudden wild hope that somehow the man in the coat from his dream — Buddy, or whoever it was — would magically appear.

But nobody came.

The angel set his hand on Sam's head. Dean tried to brace himself for the worst. But all that happened was that Sam's bloody sigil stopped dripping. It faded, the cut edges drawing together. The blood vanished, leaving Sam's chest clean and unmarred.

Then the angel walked over to Dean and laid a cool hand on Dean's head too. Dean felt a wash of warmth move through him, and the pain in his chest disappeared. He knew, without having to look, that his own sigil had been healed too.

"There, that's better," the angel said.

"You're an angel," Sam managed to say.

The angel bowed. "At your service. Well, not exactly... actually you're at my service. Nonetheless, one must be civil, yes?"

He looked back and forth between them. "And you're Sam Winchester and Dean Winchester," he said. "The famous two brothers. I've heard so much about you. You're the two who ruined everything. The two who destroyed the plan of God. The two who kept this miserable little planet alive for years after it should have been erased." He didn't sound angry; he sounded as if he were merely stating a well-known fact.

"The two who _saved _everything, you mean," Dean managed to say. The angel merely looked at him, and Dean felt his mouth clap shut against his will.

"Who are you?" Sam asked. "Ziphius or Castiel?"

The angel raised an eyebrow. "Why, neither, little child. My brother Ziphius is indeed here, though he is somewhat indisposed at the moment, poor fellow. But — Castiel? Whatever made you think I might be Castiel?" Looking at their faces, he said, "Good heavens. You thought Castiel was here?" He laughed. "What an odd mistake to have made. Nobody's seen Castiel all year. And not for lack of searching. Angels have been combing the entire earth for him, for months now. Personally, I've concluded that he died in the Fall. So many did, you know."

Dean felt a prickly wash of cold run all over his skin. He glanced at Sam and saw Sam looking back at him in despair.

Could Castiel have _died_? This was something they'd never considered.

They'd only asked Charlene _where_ Castiel was; they'd failed to ask Charlene _if Castiel was alive_. Maybe she'd simply located the spot where he had fallen. Where his body — or his vessel's body — now lay.

They'd wasted the Castiel-orb entirely. Dean and Sam had had it half-right, this morning: Castiel was not the second angel at all. Somehow, apparently, Buddy had known this, and that's why he'd panicked; Dean realized now he should have talked to Buddy about the orb, should have consulted with him, should have entrusted him with _all _the details. But Dean hadn't; instead, Dean had gotten the details wrong, critically wrong. And they'd breezed in here with their foolish little plan. It seemed ridiculous now that he'd actually thought that a few bloody sigils could be a reasonable back-up against a _full-strength angel_ who had been sitting here waiting for them all along, knowing all along that they were coming.

They'd been doomed from the beginning.

And he — and, god, no, _Sam too_ — were going to pay.

"Ah, but I'm being rude again," said the angel, "I haven't introduced myself. Do forgive me." He smiled at them. When he smiled he looked eerily beautiful. Downright angelic.

The terrible, beautiful angel said, "My name is Calcariel. I'm going to purify the world, and you two are going to help me. You won't survive the process, I'm sorry to say, and I do regret that, but a few small sacrifices are sometimes necessary for the greater good. Let's get started, shall we?"

He reached out and touched Dean's forehead, and everything went dark.

* * *

_A/N - __Next chapter to follow this weekend, once my NSF grant is submitted. ("Priorities! I know! I get it!" as Dean would say.) _

_If you want chapter updates, please follow; and if you enjoyed or have comments, please review! Some of you are leaving the most interesting reviews about story construction and plot elements - please keep 'em coming, I love reading your thoughts and reactions. Or, just say hi. :)_


	12. Meet Mr Magma

_A/N - Warning, nastiness ahead._

* * *

For a very long time Dean couldn't seem to get fully awake. He was trapped in some kind of delirious foggy state, confused and frightened and hurting. He was only dimly aware that he was in a very uncomfortable position that seemed to last for an extremely long time. Then he felt terrible blasts of pain lashing across him, across his chest and back. He tried to twist away from the blows, but couldn't seem to move. He heard screams, and he heard moaning, and did not realize that he was the one making the noises. His arms hurt. His wrists and ankles hurt. His back and chest and face were all blazing with pain. He was hot, and thirsty. Through all of it came the stink of sulfur.

At last he heard an irritated voice say, "I _distinctly_ recall instructing you to leave them in good enough shape for our guest to get a good meal. Can't I leave you two alone for a single day? I leave them in your hands for one single day and look what happens. For Heaven's sake, could you please try to keep your, ah, _appetites_ under control."

Dean felt a hand on the side of his head. A wash of warmth rushed through him, and the pain backed off several notches. The world seemed to come together, rushing into focus. Dean lifted his head and blinked his eyes open.

He was hanging from his wrists. His hands were bound together and were completely numb, his wrists seemed on fire, and his shoulders were burning with pain. Dean knew he must have been hanging there for some time.

He struggled to get his feet under him, and found that he could just support himself, though his ankles seemed to be tied to something as well.

Dean forced himself to take a breath and look around. He was in a large stone-walled room that was about four times the size of Buddy's cabin. There were thick wooden beams overhead. Looking up, Dean saw that his wrists were bound with a thick rope that ran up to a pulley overhead. Looking down, he found he was shirtless, though he still had his jeans on. There were faint, half-healed whip marks all over his chest. And his ankles were tied, by more ropes, to two iron rings set into the floor.

_This is not good_, he thought. _This is really not good. _

Before Dean was an long open stretch of stone floor, and beyond it a long table was pushed up against the wall. Dean's, and Sam's, possessions lay on the table — their coats and shirts, the shotguns and angel-knives, the bottles of water, everything they'd brought. There were also two candles flickering, one at each end of the table. And there were two men leaning against the table. Both looked rather annoyed. One held a long leather whip in one hand and seemed to be cleaning it with a rag, wiping the whip down over and over, running the rag all the way down to the long tip. The other man was a heavy-set fellow who was methodically working his way through a bag of pretzels, slurping at a beer now and then. Dean's stomach cramped at the sight of the beer, and he realized he was desperately thirsty.

He called "Sam?", twisting his head from side to side. To his left he only saw a staircase; but when he looked to his right, there was Sam, about ten feet away. Sam was bound exactly as Dean was: hanging from his arms, wrists bound to a rope that went up to a pulley, ankles tied to loops in the floor. There were whip-marks all over Sam too, all over his chest. He was very still, his head hanging, and when Dean called "Sammy?", Sam did not respond.

Dean looked around at the edges of the room, automatically trying to assess the layout of the room, trying to come up with some scrap of a plan, however frail. But besides the staircase and the two men at the table, the only other things he saw were two small windows set high into the walls, about eight feet off the ground, orange light glowing faintly through both of them. Dean guessed that these two little windows were at ground level, and that they were in the basement of the old house. By the color of the light he judged it must be either sunset or dawn. The evening of the same day they'd started out? The next morning? The next night? He wasn't sure, but from his ravening thirst he guessed it might be the next day.

"Sam?" he called again. "Sammy! Wake up!"

"Noisy, ain't he," commented the man eating the pretzels, nudging his companion.

"This is why I like to do one at a time," the one with the whip said, still looking down at his whip. Dean realized that what he was doing was cleaning blood off of it. The man with the whip added, "If you have two at once, they always keep chattering to each other."

"Ain't it funny though, Nicky? To hear the things they say?" said the one with the pretzels. "They get so cute."

"But it's always the same pattern," said Nicky, inspecting the tip of the whip closely. "First, all the we're-gonna-get-out-of-here crap. Then some teary apology about getting caught. Oh it was my fault, oh I shouldn't have told you to come on this hike, blah blah blah. Then, the goodbyes." He gave a wide yawn, looking right at Dean. He blinked, and his eyes flicked to pure black for a moment, and then, on the next blink, back to normal. "Bo-ring."

"I don't know," said the pretzel-eater, "These two look entertaining." His eyes flicked to black as well. He grinned at Dean, displaying a wide, disgusting mouthful of half-eaten pretzel, and then closed his mouth and swallowed, laughing, his eyes flicking back to normal.

_Well, we found the two demons_, Dean thought dully. _Two demons and two angels. Found 'em. That part of the plan has gone perfectly._

"Really now. Harlow. Nicholas," said a cool voice behind him. "Can't you keep your impulses under control for _just a single day_? Just look at this mess."

It was the voice Dean had heard just as he'd woken up. Dean craned his head to the right to see the angel Calcariel standing behind Sam. He was studying Sam's back with apparent distaste. He glanced over at the two demons and gestured at Sam's back in irritation, saying, "Was this really necessary?" He touched Sam's back with one finger. The finger came away bloody; Calcariel wrinkled his nose.

"But it's so fun!" said Nicky. His friend with the pretzels, who seemed to be Harlow, chortled in agreement.

Calcariel sniffed in disdain and set his hand on Sam's bloody shoulder. A moment later most of Sam's awful whip marks faded; they did not totally disappear, but at least the worst ones faded to more minor wounds.

Calcariel walked over to Dean, stopping a few feet away. "I must apologize for the behavior of my colleagues," he said to Dean. He actually looked a bit embarrassed. "Circumstances have dictated that I participate in... less than ideal collaborations. Unfortunately I have had little choice. Normally Ziphius would have been supervising your treatment, but, as I said earlier, he is indisposed, and I have had to spend some time with him, and I have had to leave my two colleagues here, Nicholas and Harlow, in charge of you, unsupervised." He shot the two demons an irritated look. "Additionally, Ziphius has required some treatment that has, well, drained me somewhat, and I find I am unable to fully heal you. I do apologize. I wish you to know, this is not normally the way I treat my sacrifices."

"Go to hell," said Dean. His throat was so dry he could barely speak.

"Oh, I've already been," said Calcariel mildly. "It didn't quite suit me. Though there are parts that are rather lovely. I have a better plan now." He walked a few steps away from Dean and looked down, at the large bare empty batch of floor. He took off his fedora and set it tidily on the edge of the table.

Then he drew some chalk from his pocket and began to draw a huge circle on the floor.

Dean realized that there was a large burned area in the center of the circle that Calcariel was drawing. Looking overhead, he saw that the wooden rafters just over the burned area were charred as well.

"I wish you to understand the purpose of this," Calcariel said, as he slowly drew what seemed to be an absolutely perfect circle, some eight feet in diameter. "It should ease your mind to know that your sacrifice is for a greater good. Though, I must say," he continued, as he finished the circle and started to add an elaborate series of runes to the outer edge, "...the previous three sacrifices really did not seem to appreciate the bigger picture. But then, humans can be so _very_ short-sighted."

"You're wasting your breath, angel," said Harlow, still munching his way through the pretzels. "Humans just have this weird thing about not wanting to be eaten by lava monsters."

"That may well be true," said Calcariel equably, adding a few more runes. "Odd, though. I admit I do not understand it. Every human will die anyway, and lava is simply so beautiful." He added a few finishing touches to his runes, stood up, and stepped back to inspect his work, hands on his hips. He added, "So much more beautiful than the _filth _that is currently infesting this benighted planet."

He stood and placed the chalk on the edge of the table. He turned and looked at Dean. "This little planet of yours was once quite beautiful," he said. "We angels, we remember those times. You do not. Your lives are so _incredibly _short. And even the demons—" he cast a narrow glance at the two men at the table. One of them spat on the floor, just missing Calcariel's feet. Calcariel merely turned back to Dean, ignoring them. "Even the demons, of course, were just humans themselves, and most of them are a few centuries old at best. Still just little children. Not enough to have any real perspective." He paced to the center of the circle, looking down at the charred stones under his feet. "But we angels... _we remember._" He looked up at Dean again. The light from the little windows was fading now, leaving just the candles, and Calcariel's glossy blond hair shone like spun gold in the dim light. He said, "We remember what it was like before. We remember what it could be."

"So being a couple thousand years older gives you the right to do whatever you want?" said Dean. "Gives you the right to torture people, and kill them?"

Calcariel raised his eyebrows. "Couple _thousand _ years old? Good Lord. Little child. How ignorant can you possibly be?"

He took a slow step closer to Dean. "We were here when the first crawling, flopping beasts first gasped their way onto shore, Dean. When those little amphibians hitched their way out of the water with their absurd, floppy little feet, we were instructed to leave them be." He took another step closer. "There are quite a few of us who have always thought that was a mistake. Do you know how long ago that was, Dean?"

He took one more step, staring Dean straight in the eyes. His eyes, Dean saw now, were an eerie, beautiful silver. "That was _four hundred million years ago_, Dean," said Calcariel softly. "_Four hundred million. _So far beyond your comprehension that actually I have no idea why I'm even trying to explain this... other than that is it is the proper thing to do, of course — to _attempt _to explain to a sacrifice what the purpose of it all is. And, Dean. Some of us were here even before then. I was one of the first. I was here in the beginning, when this little rolling ball of molten rock first formed. That was _billions _of years ago, Dean."

He turned away from Dean, gazing across the room, his eyes unfocusing. "It was _so lovely_," he said, breathing out the words, as if he could still see, in his mind's eye, a landscape so mesmerizingly beautiful that even the memory of it nearly took his breath away. "It was _gorgeous._ The fields of lava, everywhere, Dean, the volcanos, the eruptions... the whole planet glowed. It _shone_. In every color you can imagine, every frequency of the spectrum. It was truly magnificent."

He said quietly, his eyes still unfocused as if he were gazing into the past, "The planet was clean then. And there was no suffering."

"Because there was no life, you mean?" said Dean.

"Exactly," said the angel.

His eyes refocused on Dean. "And now. Look at you. Such lovely souls, really — that is the whole point of the planet, after all. To generate new souls. That's the entire point of it. But, the Lord knows, we have _enough _human souls now. That's why the Apocalypse was supposed to happen. We have enough. I simply don't see why we keep this planet going just to make more. Dean, each new soul suffers so. You have such terrible little lives. All that grief and sorrow and pain. And the whole time you are trapped in such _filthy _bodies. Look at you now." He gestured at Dean, and at Sam. "Stinking of sweat and blood and piss and shit. All these... _secretions_. It's so foul. The whole poor planet is coated in this, this, _stinking filth_ now, these meat bodies — everywhere you look — these horrible —" He glanced down at his own body, his mouth twitching in disgust. "How can you even stand it?"

Dean had been twisting his wrists and shifting his feet while Calcariel had been talking, trying to find some weakness in the ropes, but apparently these demons knew their knots — the ropes were tight. Dean could think of no other plan other than to keep Calcariel talking. _Stall for time_, he kept thinking.

It was one of the first things his dad had taught him: _When nothing else works, when there's no hope at all, at least stall for time. _

"So what are you planning to do?" Dean asked. "What's the circle for?"

"Why, we are going to call the elemental," said Calcariel.

"What's an elemental?" croaked Sam from the side. Dean jerked and looked at him, and was hugely relieved to see Sam's head up, his eyes open. Sam's eyes met Dean's; he looked very shaky and his head was wobbling slightly, but he held Dean's eyes for a moment and managed to give a tiny shrug. _What the hell are we going to do_?, the shrug meant.

Dean gave a tiny shrug back: _I don't know. _"Hey, Sammy," he said softly.

"Ah. Samuel. Good to see you awake," said Calcariel. "To answer your question, elementals are the soul of the planet. They are the ones who shaped this planet in the beginning — who gathered together the rocks, the bits of cometary matter, who formed the earth and the atmosphere. They shaped the continents and the oceans. They are the spirits that dwell behind the great forces of nature. Most of the elementals have been asleep for the last two billion years or so. Most are in the planetary core, but a few, like the one here, sleep nearer to the surface. They shift in their sleep, and the continental plates move. And..." Calcariel looked down at his perfect circle — "sometimes they can be awakened."

He looked up at Sam and Dean. He said, "An elemental, my little children, is a creature who can remake the surface of the earth. Purify it. Return it to its true state."

He went on, "I have some kin who have always agreed with me that those little floppy-footed amphibians were a bad idea from the beginning, and that Creation would be best served by returning it to its initial, glorious, state. There was one time when God clearly agreed. Some two hundred and fifty-three million years ago, God woke an elemental. Creation had taken a bit of a bad turn and God chose to purify nearly the entire planet."

He smiled, clearly enjoying the memory. "Such a magnificent sight it was! Great seas of lava! He called awake the great elemental that sleeps under Siberia, and it put forth a field of lava larger than all of Europe. The entire atmosphere was purified, the whole planet nearly purified. Almost everything purified. Nearly all life on earth went extinct." A frown crossed his face. "But not entirely. God chose to save a few creatures. I was... I cannot question his plan but I was... I confess I was disappointed."

He brightened again, saying, "I had the idea then that perhaps God would like for the angels to take on such tasks themselves. It seemed that he was demonstrating for us what he wished us to do. I have tried several times since to awaken an elemental — I almost got the one under India awake, but not quite enough. I did have a most brilliant idea shortly after that, though, and managed to divert an asteroid here. That was, oh, sixty-five million years ago, give or take. Such an impact! Really it was quite a sight. I hesitate to boast — I don't wish to seem conceited — but that was, I think, the most impressive thing I've ever accomplished."

Dean's mouth had fallen open. He risked a glance at Sam and saw Sam's eyes wide open.

"Are you saying... are you saying that y_ou_ killed the dinosaurs?" said Sam in disbelief.

The demons both sighed theatrically. "_This _again?" muttered Nicky. Harlow replied, talking around a pretzel he'd just popped into his mouth, "God, he so loves to talk about his damn meteor."

Calcariel darted them a sharp glance, his perfect brow marred by an irritated frown.

"The story is worth telling," said Calcariel said to the demons. "It's instructive." He turned to Dean with a professorial air, and said, "It was not a bad plan, but I admit I failed. I didn't fully realize that other angels might actually resist my meteor."

Dean could barely follow what he was saying. "Other angels fought the meteor?" he repeated, a confused image rising in his mind of angels, meteors and dinosaurs all charging at each other at once.

Calcariel sighed, and said, "I'm embarrassed to say it was something quite a bit simpler than that. Something I quite overlooked. There are a few angels who are... defective, to be honest. Flawed. At any rate, one of them, that Castiel you were looking for in fact, got it in his head to save some... well, they looked like little ducks. Ancestors of ducks, anyway." Calcariel shook his head. "He has the most ridiculous habit of getting sentimentally attached to the little beasts that live here. It's quite embarrassing, actually. Can you imagine? An angel lowering himself to save some ducks? Apparently he'd made some ridiculous promise to some absurd little creature he'd met here, some vessel of his or something, to try to save a few of its family. Can you imagine? I heard he was doing this and didn't even bother to stop it because it just seemed so pathetic." He sighed. "I thought, why not give little Castiel his precious little ducks? Who ever would have thought a few ducks could cause so much trouble?"

Despite himself, Dean had gotten interested. He asked, "What did the ducks do?"

Calcariel looked over at him thoughtfully. "Well, it wasn't the ducks so much as the horrid little scuttling _rats_ that also turned out to be living in the duck colony. Or, proto-rats, I suppose I should say. And some insects and things. One ridiculous little duck colony and the next thing you know the planet is _completely infested_ again. Birds and mammals and insects _everywhere. _All the birds alive today trace back to those ducks, and all the mammals to those damn little rat things. It's been _extremely irritating_."

He looked down at the circle. "Castiel has always been a problem that way. And since then of course he's caused much greater problems. Rumor has it he was somehow involved in stopping the Apocalypse, though I've never heard exactly what he did. And he turned the leviathans loose, killed Raphael, slaughtered half my brothers — and now of course he's sealed Heaven. But in a way I have to thank him, for he actually gave me an idea. He made a deal with a denizen of Hell, which quite appalled me at the time, but then it occurred to me, _that is the solution_. I realized, the denizens of Hell can call directly to lava; _they can wake the elementals_. So I thought, what if I, too, worked with the denizens of Hell? They wake the elemental, and feed it fuel; and then I speak to it, and coax it to do my bidding? Working together, we could fully wake an elemental. And I could purify the Earth. Make it as it was in the beginning. All molten. Clean. Pure. _B__eautiful."_

"And you don't care if everybody dies?" said Dean.

"Dean. This is better for you humans too. Don't you see? This is what will finally end all the suffering. All the suffering souls can go to Heaven, which is their true ultimate home in the end, after all. And we angels, if we cannot live in Heaven any more, at least we can have a new home down here, but a purified one, a clean one. One that is worthy of us."

He smiled at them brightly. "Isn't this an excellent solution? For all of us! Humans and angels alike. I was so pleased when I thought of it."

Dean glanced over at Sam and saw Sam looking back at him in horror.

Calcariel said, "Hence my two... _colleagues_ here. They've agreed to assist in calling the elemental, and in feeding it the fuel it needs, and I've been talking with the elemental to arrange an explosion that will, I believe, cover this entire continent. And since Castiel is dead he won't be around to save another bunch of damn ducks. The planet will _finally_ be clean."

Something Calcariel had just said caught Dean's attention. _The fuel it needs_, Calcariel had said.

"What's the fuel?" Dean asked, knowing the answer already.

"Human souls," said Calcariel. "Each one, when fully digested, provides several nuclear explosions' worth of energy. The elemental here was already quite strong; it only needs a bit more energy, near the surface here. We've fed it three souls already and it only needs a few more for the kind of explosion I have in mind. Two more should do it, I think." He smiled at Sam and Dean. "And then you two came just walking along. I've had my eye on you for several days already, you know, and even sent my colleagues here to you with some little pieces of the elemental, to try to get rid of you. It never occurred to me that you'd come walking right in and actually hand yourselves over like this. Two of you! It's so perfect."

He paused and said, very seriously, "I do believe that God sent you to me."

"You're insane," said Dean.

Calcariel drew very close, his silver eyes boring into Dean. Dean flinched back, as much as he was able to. Calcariel just said, quite softly. "I merely have a different perspective. A more accurate perspective. You have been alive a few decades; I, for billions of years. You have known one culture, I have known _thousands_. You know one species; I've seen _millions_ of species rise and fall."

His silver eyes were glinting with an inner fire, his perfectly sculpted face half-lit by the flickering light. "So tell me, little human," he said softly, leaning even closer, his lips only inches from Dean's ear. "Which of us sees things more clearly?"

Dean heard Sam say, very slowly, as if stunned, "Oh my god." Calcariel turned to him. Sam said, "You actually think you're doing the right thing."

Calcariel looked genuinely puzzled. "Of course I'm doing the right thing," he said. "Why else would I bother?"

Harlow turned to Nicky and said, "Jesus H. Fucking Christ. If I'd known that taking this deal would mean listening to _five thousand of these angel lectures_, I would've turned it down."

Nicky, who was still stroking the long whip lovingly, said "Wrap it up already, angel. We're getting bored."

Calcariel's mouth twitched. He turned and glared at them. "It is important for those sacrificed to understand the reasons. To know what they are contributing to."

Nicky said, "All they hear is, blah blah blah, we're going to throw you into the lava. And honestly that's all I'm hearing too."

Calcariel sighed and stepped back from Dean. "No sense of _perspective_," he muttered to himself, smoothing down his sleek blond hair and tucking it behind his ears. "Still, one must try." He looked over to the demons. "Fair enough. Time to call the elemental."

"Mr. Magma," muttered Dean.

Calcariel gave him a curious glance. "That is — not a bad term, actually. It is respectful." He smiled. "I rather like it. Mr. Magma. Well, my children. Meet Mr. Magma."

The two demons rose slowly from their places, stretching.

"You're really going to fall for this?" said Dean to them hoarsely. "It'll put Hell out of business, you know. What do you get out of it?"

"What do we get out of it?" Nicky said, "We get to play with the food! All we want. And the angels heal them up and then we get to play with them again."

Harlow grinned at Dean, and said, "It's _fun_."

Nicky said, "And, since you asked, Deany-boy, we'll give you a free demo! We'll play with _you_ next. All tomorrow, I think. Which I guess means your bro here is the one we'll toss to the elemental right now."

"NO," burst out Dean. "No, no, throw me in — throw me in first."

"Dean, no —" said Sam.

"Throw me in first," insisted Dean. This was actually a very selfish move, he knew. If he went in first, he wouldn't have to watch Sam die.

"Oh god," said Nicky to Harlow, rolling his eyes. "Here we go with all the drama. Sacrifice _me _first, no no, sacrifice _me _first. I told you it's a bad idea to do two at a time."

"Naw," said Harlow. "These two are going to be fun to play with. I can tell. These two have been in Hell! They'll appreciate the art of what we do. It's rare we get a truly appreciative audience."

Nicky considered this. "You might be right." He thought a moment. "I should get out my special whip."

"Gentlemen," said Calcariel, "My patience is growing thin."

The two demons rolled their eyes at each other, and sauntered over to a cleat by the walls, which, Dean realized, was holding the end of Sam's wrist rope. They lowered Sam to the ground. Sam collapsed in a heap, with a sort of whimper, and seemed unable to get to his feet. The demons unbound his ankles and began dragging him across the room, and soon, to Dean's horror, they were stringing Sam up from the rafter directly over the circle.

"I must bid you farewell," said Calcariel to Dean. "I must check on my brother. And for some reason the elemental is a bit reluctant to surface when an angel is in the room. It's been a pleasure to meet you both. I do apologize for... well, for all the agony you are about to suffer. I am sorry. But it'll only last three days — it takes three days for the elemental to fully digest a soul."

"It'll feel like three years, if that helps," said Nicky cheerfully.

Calcariel went on smoothly, "It is for the greater good. You should be proud."

"Go to hell, you fucking psychopath," said Dean. He tried to spit at Calcariel, but missed; the spit fell far short.

Calcariel's brow creased slightly. He shook his head in puzzlement, his silver eyes wide and innocent. He murmured again "_No_ sense of perspective." He turned and walked up the stairs, and was gone.

* * *

The demons grinned at each other. "I kinda like this part," said Harlow. "The way they panic is always kinda cool."

"All the different types of screams are cool," agreed Nicky. "Okay, ready?"

"Sammy, hold on!" Dean said. "You just hold on! We're gonna get out of here, you hear me?" Nicky just rolled his eyes. Dean could hear Sam gasping as he swung slightly, strung up by his wrists, high over the circle.

The two demons positioned themselves on opposite sites of the circle, each standing on one of the runes. Harlow nodded to Nicky, and they began a chant in unison.

The chant went on for a quite a while. At first nothing seemed to be happening; but then Dean felt the ground quiver under his feet. It quivered again, and shook, rather like the way the earthquake had begun on the bridge. Then the whole floor started shaking, and Dean watched in increasing panic, yanking fruitlessly at the ropes on his wrists and ankles, yelling to Sam to hold on, as the floor within the circle started to glow. First a very dull crimson; then a brighter red; then orange, yellow, and, right in the middle, white. Waves of heat started rolling off of it, almost searing Dean's face, even though he was a dozen feet away. Sam yelped and drew his feet up as high as he could.

The chant continued, and the white part in the middle of the circle went soft and liquid. It melted away, sinking down, and then the whole circular section inside the circle collapsed, melting downward. A perfect cylinder was forming, extending from the wide circle right down into the earth, its walls glowing molten orange.

The chant ended, and both demons stepped out of their positions and peered curiously down the cylinder. Sam thrashed his feet, twisting from side to side. Dean could see he was trying to pull himself up somehow, trying to climb further up his ropes to the rafter. But he seemed just too weak to do so. A full day of dehydration and torture had taken its toll, apparently.

There was a rumbling sound from deep down in the pit. It sounded very, very far away, as if it were echoing from thousands of feet down.

It rumbled again. It sounded a little louder. A little closer.

"Dean?" Sam managed to gasp out. He had stopped his flailing, and was hanging limply now, turning slightly in mid-air. He managed to catch Dean's eye.

"Dean," Sam said again. And that was all he said; but Dean knew it was a good-bye.

Dean had seen many horrible things in his life.

He had been in Hell for decades. He had seen many horrible things.

But at that moment he knew he'd never seen anything more horrible than his brother Sam hanging helpless over that pit, and hearing that ghastly, unknowable _something _getting closer, closer, closer. For this time, Sam's soul would be destroyed. This was the real end.

Sam glanced down, looking right into the hole under his feet, and he whimpered. Dean's heart broke at the sound. He said "Sammy," and Sam glanced at him, and Dean couldn't think what else to say.

Nicky had moved back over to the table. He leaned back against the table, his arms crossed, and said to Dean, "If you're working up to the teary goodbye phase, it'll be a few minutes. Mr. Magma — oh, by the way, I personally would have gone with "Magma-Man", but tastes differ — anyway, Mr. Magma has to come up from the bottom of the magma chamber. Always takes him a while. He's always kind of sleepy at first."

The growl came again. Closer still.

Dean closed his eyes and prayed, as he never had before. He prayed, desperately, to the man in the coat, to God, to Buddy, to whoever might possibly hear him. He said, out loud, heedless of the demons overhearing: "Please help me, please help me, Calcariel's got us, the demons got us, they're throwing Sam to Mr. Magma, it's going to eat his soul, it's happening _right now_, please help me, please help me, please help me, please help me, _please_..."

Nothing happened. Nobody came.

Dean knew then that it was over.

His vision flickered. For a moment he saw only a haze of flickering static in front of him. Then, for just a microsecond, he felt a flash of horrific pain in his right side, so brutal it made him scream. At the same moment his vision blurred completely and all he could see was a round white blob, the rest of the world graying out entirely around him.

He couldn't breathe. He was suffocating. He was choking on blood. The pain was blinding. There was something in his throat. People were clustered around him holding him down.

A moment later, as if a switch had been thrown, the pain was suddenly gone, and he could breathe again. His vision cleared and he was looking at Sam again.

And that was it. That was all that the prayer had gotten him. A blast of excruciating pain and a vision of a round white blob. _Great. That was really helpful_, _God. _thought Dean. _Knew you'd come through. You sick bastard. Round white blob. Thanks a lot._

The growl was closer still. Nicky was yawning, looking rather bored, and Harlow was peering disconsolately into his pretzel bag. Harlow shook the bag upsidedown and poured a last few broken pretzel-bits into his hand. He licked the pretzel-bits off his hand, and then crumpled the bag and tossed it on the floor, sighing.

Dean was thinking: _Round white blob. Round white blob. Oh..._

It was a long shot. A _very _long shot. But at the least it might provide a distraction. _Just stall for time_, said his dad. _Stall for time. _

_Be careful. Promise_.

Dean said to Harlow, "If you let me be first, if you put me in first, instead of Sam, I've got something you can have." He nodded toward his coat and added, "Something in my coat."

The demons looked at each other and both burst out laughing. Nicky said, "Oh _god_, now it's the _bargaining _phase. Why _the hell_ do you people always think you're in a position to bargain?" He leaned over and picked up Dean's coat from the table beside him, and rummaged around in the pockets, unearthing only the bags of M&Ms.

"Candy? Seriously? Is that your bargaining chip? Jesus Christ." He began laughing, and flung a bag of M&M's straight into the pit. They burst into a puff of flame when they were only a few feet down. He chucked the entire jacket in the pit next, and raised his hand with the last two bags of M&M's.

"Gimme that," snapped Harlow, grabbing at the other two bags. "Jeez. No need to waste them." He tore the ends off both bags and upended them into his mouth without looking, dumping both bags into his mouth, chewing in delight.

Then he gasped. His eyes widened. He dropped the empty bags, both hands going to his throat.

He turned to his companion and began tugging frantically on the Nicky's sleeve.

"You are such a pig," said Nicky. "You can't choke to death, moron. You're a demon. You don't _need_ oxygen. It's just uncomfortable."

But Harlow was frantic now, tugging harder at Nicky's sleeve and then pawing at his throat. He began to make tiny squeaking noises, and he started clawing desperately at his throat, till he was raking bloody furrows in his own neck.

"What. The—" said Nicky. Then bits of light began to shine through Harlow's teeth, vivid white light. Nicky jumped off the table, took a step toward Dean and yelled "WHAT WAS IN THOSE BAGS?!" The light was shining brighter through Harlow's teeth. It was a vivid, silvery, _Heavenly _kind of light, and Nicky cringed, looked frantically around the room and up at the stairs.

Nicky turned and in one sudden motion shoved Harlow hard toward the pit. Harlow reeled and tipped over the edge, flailing his arms wildly. One arm hit Sam's feet and Harlow grabbed on to Sam's ankles, dangling right over the pit now, half inside it. Sam was jerked down brutally, Harlow's full weight hanging on him. Sam screamed hoarsely, his head hanging back. Nicky ran over to Dean and actually hid behind him, clinging to Dean's back, and Dean realized that Nicky was _terrified _of coming into contact with that radiant white Heavenly light. _A weapon of Heaven_, Dean thought, amazed.

A long low roaring sound came, like the sound of an approaching fire, the sound of a train coming. This time it didn't stop, but grew louder and louder, deafeningly loud, and at last a tremendous loop of glowing red lava reached up out of the pit. It wasn't shaped like a man; it had no face or eyes, but it had to be Mr. Magma.

It was smooth and shining, like an animated glowing ribbon of silk, all made of color, all reds and oranges and yellows twisted together.

Calcariel had been right; it _was _beautiful.

The whole rest of the room seemed to grow dark and choking, as if the loop of radiant color had sucked all the light and oxygen out of the room. It seemed to explore around in the air for a moment like a tentacle, and then it approached Harlow, who was still hanging from Sam's feet, kicking wildly, white light seeping steadily from his mouth and ears. The brilliant arc of colored lava suddenly slid into the demon's mouth.

There was a vivid burst of white light. Dean had to close his eyes.

When he opened his eyes again, Mr. Magma was gone, and the floor was solid again. Sam was still hanging from the charred rafter, alive, gasping, swinging slowly back and forth. And on the blackened ground beneath him lay a smoking body, its charred eyesockets and mouth and ears all steaming slightly.

Nicky stepped out from behind Dean. He stared for a long moment, in disbelief, at the smoking corpse of his companion. Then he screamed, a long inarticulate cry of rage. He seized his whip and began whipping Sam, over and over and over, lashing him from head to foot. Sam was screaming, and Dean yelled "STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP HURTING HIM! STOP HURTING HIM!" Nicky suddenly said "Okay," and turned in one smooth motion while drawing the whip backwards, without even breaking his rhythm; and then the lash was falling on Dean, over and over, across his back, across his chest, right across his face, until Dean began to scream too.

* * *

_A/N -_

_Calcariel's description of God purifying the planet is about the end-Permian extinction, during which the massive Siberian Traps erupted, nearly causing the extinction of all life on Earth. Much later, the "elemental under India" that Calcariel tried to awaken produced the eruption of the vast Deccan Traps, which just preceded the dinosaur extinctions — though as Calcariel says, the Deccan Traps eruption alone wasn't quite enough, and it took a meteor to do the final blow. _

_All (or most, anyway) birds on earth are indeed descended from a small population of waterbirds that somehow survived that long-ago Apocalypse when the meteor fell. A small population of mammals somehow survived as well. As soon as I heard that Castiel had been around since the amphibians first crawled on shore, I realized he must have seen the great mass extinctions of the past (there have been 5), and I decided he must have had a hand in saving that little group of birds._

For_ chapter updates, please follow. If you enjoyed or have comments, please review! Next chapter coming tomorrow (yes, with an update on Buddy)._


	13. The Flail Chest in Six

_A/N - This was originally part of the previous chapter, but it got so long I had to split it._

* * *

In a room not many miles away, ICU nurses Lydia McConnolly and Sarah Helvern were standing over the flail-chest in ICU bay six. Lydia was saying, "O2-sat suddenly way up. Look, he's finally up in the 90's. That's so nice to see. God, I thought that hemorrhaging would never stop."

ICU bay six was actually one of Sarah's two rooms — Lydia had bays three and four, but the broken femur in three had just checked out of the ICU, and the diabetic coma in four was doing well; so Lydia was helping Sarah out with the mysterious flail-chest in six. The flail-chest been in a coma for a day and a half, in quite horrible condition. His chest injury had turned out to be only the most obvious of his problems. He'd also turned out to have two collapsed lungs — one totally, the other partially — plus some facial fractures, plus quite a bizarre series of hemorrhages that kept occurring one after the other (from his nose, his stomach, his lungs, it never seemed to end), plus a steep fever and indications of kidney and liver failure, plus he'd fallen into a coma just half an hour after arrival. The entire ICU staff had been certain he was CTD (Circling The Drain) and Sarah hadn't even bothered doing the paperwork for her shift replacement yet, she'd been so certain he'd be dead before the next shift change.

And then an hour ago he'd had a seizure. Quite a violent one; it had seemed to hit him right out of the blue, and they'd had to hold him down to prevent him from tearing out all his various IV drips and wires and tubes. Sarah had been certain it would be the final blow for him. But just a few minutes after the seizure, suddenly his BP had stabilized, his fever had broken, and by all indications the hemorrhaging had stopped too. His last round of bloodwork had just come back showing huge improvements in all his kidney and liver readings, and a hematocrit that was already nearly back to normal. It had been an incredible turnaround.

In fact, it was one of the most peculiar things either Lydia or Sarah had ever seen. Which was why they were both still standing here in the flail-chest's room, an hour later, checking him again and again, watching in astonishment as his numbers continued to improve. He was still not out of the woods by any means; though new things seemed to have finally stopped going wrong, the old problems were still quite serious — particularly the chest injury. But he was improving almost by the minute.

Sarah said, checking the infrared thermometer that was pressed against his ear, "Wow. Fever's already down to a hundred."

At that moment the flail-chest's eyes flickered open. Sarah whispered to Lydia, "Good god, he's awake." To the flail-chest she said, "Don't try to talk."

She'd always thought it was a particularly nice moment when a coma patient awoke and you finally got to see what color their eyes were. This one turned out to have blue eyes. Beautiful blue eyes, she thought. Quite striking against his black hair.

He looked surprisingly alert; he was looking all around the room, and he was even able to focus on Sarah's face when she bent down to him and took one of his hands in hers. She spoke to him carefully. "You're in the hospital in Jackson. Just squeeze my hand if you understand me, but don't try to talk, and don't try to move your head - there's a tube in your throat and you won't be able to speak. I know it feels very strange, but don't try to talk. Okay? Squeeze my hand if you understand."

He squeezed her hand.

"Do you know your name? One squeeze for yes, two for no."

He squeezed her hand once.

"Good. You were brought in yesterday morning. You've been very sick. Do you remember what happened?

Another squeeze.

"Can write something down for me?"

Another squeeze. Lydia stepped out, and returned a moment later with a pen and a pad of paper.

"Write your name, please?" asked Sarah, putting the pen in his fingers and holding the pad for him.

He wrote, in a slow, shaky scrawl:

_Buddy_

"Same as the paramedics said," muttered Lydia.

"What's your last name, Buddy?" asked Sarah.

He tried to put the pen down, but she persisted, saying, "We really need to know your last name. Can you tell us your last name? Your family name?"

He thought a moment, and then he began to write a long name, one painstaking letter at a time. First a W, then an I...

She waited patiently till he managed to finish the word:

_Winchester_

"Buddy Winchester? That's your name?"

He hesitated, and then nodded. Lydia made a note on his chart.

"Buddy, do you have any family we should contact?

He shook his head.

The two nurses looked at each other.

"Maybe a distant family member? Or a friend?" said Lydia. He shook his head again. Sarah added, "A girlfriend, maybe? Someone from work? A neighbor? Anybody who will miss you?"

He shook his head again, and wrote:

_Nobody _

The two nurses exchanged another look.

"That's all right, Buddy. We'll take care of you," said Sarah, patting his hand again. "Listen to me, Buddy. Five of your ribs are broken, and that's making it hard for you to breathe. I know it hurts. We're giving you morphine for it, and we're already giving you as much as we can. Also, both your lungs collapsed, yesterday, but they've been re-inflated now. It will be painful to breathe for a while. The tube in your throat is to help you breathe. It'll be in there for a few days."

He wrote:

_Take it out_

Sarah and Lydia looked at each other doubtfully. Buddy watched them, and wrote a longer sentence:

_Take the tube out of my throat. Now_

"You're too weak to breathe on your own right now," explained Lydia. "Your ribs haven't healed yet. You'll need to be on mechanical ventilation for at least a few days more."

He shook his head urgently, and wrote again:

_I can breathe on my own. Please take it out_

He watched their faces, and added:

_I need to be able to talk. Please_

Lydia leaned over toward Sarah and murmured, "No way can he breathe on his own this soon," He was watching them whispering to each other. He wrote:

_Please_

and added the underline. Then he added:

_Or I'll rip it out_

The fact that he was alert enough, and persistent enough, to write all this out was what actually made Sarah finally consider his request. "We'll check with the resident on call," she said at last. "We have to be sure you're capable of breathing on your own." She patted his hand, and went outside to page Dr. Moran.

Twenty minutes drifted by, but Dr. Moran did not answer the page. Sarah sighed; she knew Moran had pulled a thirty-six hour shift already, but still. Sarah paged him again, and went to check on her other patient, the heart attack in bay five. The heart attack was doing quite well (his daughter had brought him in just in time), so she poked her head back into six, Buddy's bay, and saw him shifting restlessly in bed, his hands knotting in the bedsheets.

As she was looking at him, she saw him flinch suddenly and put his hands over his ears, squeezing his eyes shut, looking almost as if he were trying to hear a very distant voice. His face whitened, and his pulse began to race so much that she stepped back into his room. For several minutes he seemed unaware of her presence, and then seemed to come back to himself, looking up at her with wide, desperate eyes.

She knew that look. She'd seen it on the faces of people who were watching their loved ones die.

He gestured for the pad again and wrote:

_Take it out Take it out Now_

All she could do was pat his hand and tell him that she'd go page damn Dr. Moran again. Which she did.

Ten minutes later the same thing happened. Again he seemed to be listening to something distant; again his heart rate spiked. He looked over at her, that same stricken look in his eyes. Sarah told him, "I've paged the doctor again," and reluctantly started to leave the room to check on bay five. But then, thank god, she just happened to glance back and saw Buddy feeling around the breathing tube, obviously trying to figure out how it was tied to his head. This was always a bad sign — step one of a patient trying to "self-extubate", as it was called — so Sarah asked Lydia to cover five for a while, and parked herself in bay six.

Three times in the next twenty minutes he tried to pull out the respiration tube. He got progressively sneakier about it, too, waiting till he thought they weren't watching. By the time she caught him the third time he had gotten agitated, trying repeatedly to gesture to the tube, and writing _Please_ several times on the pad. But they could not risk him ripping it out on his own, so she called Lydia over, and together they tied soft white terry cuffs around his wrists, buckling the cuffs to the sides of the bedframe.

When he realized what they had done with his hands, he began to cry.

Sarah looked at Lydia. "Page goddam Moran again," whispered Lydia. "Tag it as urgent."

"I already tagged it urgent."

"Then start paging him every damn minute. And send a runner." Lowering her voice, she whispered in Sarah's ear, "If he starts crying like that he's going to mess up his ribs again anyway, and then what's the point? We could sedate him, of course, but that's kind of counterproductive because of the low BP...'cause, you know, he's been so shocky..." They drifted off into an argument about whether or not Moran would just try to sedate him.

An hour later, Dr. Moran finally arrived (only after Lydia had sent a runner to actually hunt him down. He'd turned out to be napping in a supply closet). To Sarah's considerable relief, Moran agreed to evaluate Buddy for extubation: removal of the breathing tube. There was then a long process of verifying that Buddy's fever was gone, that his blood pressure had stabilized, that he no longer needed the constant blood transfusion that he'd been getting for the last thirty-six hours, that he was alert and knew where he was. It took a long time, and Sarah knew Buddy was frustrated; he kept darting desperate looks in her direction. At last Moran allowed him to try to breathe on his own.

Sarah had briefly explained to Buddy that they needed to check his breathing while the tube was still in his throat, so that they could rapidly re-start the ventilator if needed. Lydia scaled down the air flow, and, with Moran and Sarah and Lydia all watching, Buddy tried to take his first breath on his own in a day and a half.

Immediately his face whitened. Sarah was watching the heart monitor, and she saw his heart literally skip a beat, and then began to race.

"Way too painful," whispered Sarah to Lydia. "He's not going to be able to do this." She'd whispered very quietly, but Buddy's eyes shot to her face.

He locked eyes with her and managed to take a breath, and then another, and then another. His heart rate stuttered on every breath, but he kept going. Sarah found herself staring back at him, at his shockingly blue eyes and his strangely intense stare. She glanced briefly down at the little notepad, which she was still holding, and looked again at what he had written: _I need to be able to talk. __Please__. _She glanced over at Dr. Moran and saw him start the stopwatch on his phone, watching Buddy's respiratory monitor with close attention. She looked back at Buddy; he was still staring at her.

_One minute_, she mouthed at him. _You have to go for one minute._

Then she mouthed two more words: _Deep. Slow._

Buddy had been doing short shallow pants, but switched to deeper, slower breaths as soon as she mouthed these two words. She saw his face whiten again, the bruises on his face livid against his pale skin, and watched his heart rate stutter. And watched him keep it up, for one whole minute.

"And now, can you cough for me?" said Dr. Moran.

Buddy shot a worried glance at Sarah. Sarah took a step back so that she was far enough behind Dr. Moran so that the doctor wouldn't see her pantomiming a big hearty cough. _Deep, strong_, she mouthed. Buddy paused for a moment and then tried a cough. His face blanched again, and then somehow he managed to do a second, larger cough. Again his face paled and again his heart rate spiked, but Dr. Moran said "Hey, that was pretty good. Nice RSBI and that was a decent cough."

Buddy finally broke eye contact with Sarah, giving Dr. Moran a puzzled glance.

"Rapid Shallow Breathing Index," explained the resident. "You don't need to know the details —" (Buddy narrowed his eyes at this) "— but what we like to see is deep, slow breaths. Means you can really use your lungs. And you've done quite well, actually. You've surprised us all, you know. Quite a fighter." Moran clapped Buddy on the shoulder in what Sarah thought was an annoyingly condescending way. He turned to the nurses and said, "All right. Let's extubate."

They took the tube out, at last, Buddy coughing for real this time. Once the resident finally left, Buddy curled up on his side, Sarah and Lydia both helping him try to get comfortable. Lydia had to leave the room to go check on her own patient, and Sarah took Buddy's hand again. She leaned over till she could look him in the eyes.

"This is _much,_ _much _more painful for you than you are letting on," she told him. "I can tell from your heart rate. I just want you to know, I do have to keep an eye on you, and if you look like you aren't breathing well, we will have to put it back in."

Buddy whispered, "I have ... to be able ... to speak." He added, mystifyingly, "I'm trying ... to call someone. He's not ... answering. Been trying ... since yesterday. Think he'll hear better... if I can say his name ... out loud." He glanced up at her. "Can you ... leave me alone."

This whole speech was a bit worrying, since it sounded like Buddy was somewhat delirous. How could he have been calling someone when he'd been in a coma? And when he had no phone? Sarah glanced over at his jacket, which was sitting with his shoulder-bag on a table in the corner of the room. She'd found a little prepaid phone in the jacket, and she'd called the one and only number that was stored in its memory, but had got no answer. She could still see the edge of the phone sticking out of the bag. The phone was far out of reach; there was no way Buddy could have been calling anyone.

Had the fever returned? Was he delirious? She felt his forehead, but it seemed cool.

"Leave me alone? Just a few minutes?" he pleaded.

Sarah shook her head, saying, "I'm afraid I can't leave you alone."

"Ten minutes?" said Buddy. "Please." He gestured up to the monitors, as if to say, _You've got all these monitors on me anyway; why do you need to sit and watch me?_

She gave him a long look, her arms folded. His eyes looked clear and focused. She felt his forehead again. "Ten minutes," she agreed at last. "You promise you won't do anything stupid?"

He nodded. She pulled the curtains closed around his little ICU bay, and left him in peace — and hurried straight to the nurses' station, where she could keep an eagle eye on the remote readouts from all his monitors.

As she sat at her station, she thought she heard a fluttering noise. The curtain in Buddy's ICU bay swayed slightly. She doublechecked his monitors, but all was well.

She was quite puzzled a few minutes later to hear a quiet conversation going on in bay six. Was he talking to himself? She thought a moment, got worried, thought _Screw the ten minutes_, and pulled back the curtain to stick her head in the bay. She was astonished to see a man standing by Buddy's bed. How on earth had he gotten there?

"Excuse me!" she said. "Who are you? Immediate family only! And it's not even visiting hours. You'll have to leave."

Buddy, still curled up on his side, gave her a decidedly annoyed look. He whispered hoarsely, "That wasn't ... ten minutes." Turning his eyes back to his visitor, he said, as if Sarah weren't even there, "You owe them. You owe _me._"

There was rather a strained pause, and it dawned on Sarah that she had blundered into the tail end of some kind of intense private conversation. _Whatever this is, it's why he needed the tube out_, she realized. _It's why he needed to be able to talk_.

"Please," said Buddy.

An even longer pause. The visitor had his arms folded, and was staring over Buddy's bed, out the window. The only sound was the steady beeping of the heart monitor. Six long beeps went by.

They both seemed to have completely forgotten that Sarah was there. She knew she should chase the visitor away, but Buddy's heart rate still looked good. And besides, she was fascinated.

Another six beeps went by. Buddy stared up at the visitor, unblinking.

The visitor said, slowly, "I can't heal you."

Sarah happened to be looking right at Buddy's face as the visitor said this, and she thought to herself, _I've never actually seen someone's heart break before._

The visitor said, "Not all the way, I mean. I'm ... I'm too weak. And if I work on you even a little bit... then I can't do anything else. Can't take you there, can't go with you."

A flicker of hope had returned to Buddy's eyes. He whispered, "Just do what you can." The visitor nodded. Buddy shifted his eyes to Sarah and said, "I need another ten minutes." Bewildered, she nodded and returned to the nurses' station, where she sat and stared at his heart monitor, wondering what on earth the "I can't heal you" had been about. _Some kind of faith healing prayer thing_, she guessed. Fair enough — she'd learned, over the years, to let patients find hope where they could. And whatever it was, clearly it was very important to Buddy. So she decided to give them the full ten minutes.

Eventually she realized she really _had_ to check her other patient in bay five, and reluctantly went to do so. But while in bay five she suddenly heard the distinctive wail of a flatlining heart monitor. She dashed back into Buddy's room, and found the bed empty. The whole room was empty. He'd stripped the ECG leads from his chest, the O2 monitor from his finger, he'd yanked the IV clean out, and he'd ripped his catheter out too (that had to have hurt). His jacket and his bag were gone.

He'd left one more note on the pad of paper, which was propped on his pillow. It said:

_Thank you_

* * *

_A/N - _

_Sorry for being intentionally mysterious about some things... oh no wait, I'm not sorry at all, I forgot, I LOVE doing that to you all. heh heh heh. You guys are so awesome, I know I can always count on you to put the pieces together for yourself! (Just remember to bring some glue)_

_if you want chapter updates, please follow; if you liked or have comments, please review. Did I mention that reviews make me happy? _


	14. The Man In The Coat

_A/N - Waited a few days for everybody to get caught up on the new episode. :) Also the NSF grant is submitted, and I got an absolutely gigantic chapter done for you! But then realized it was 3x longer than any of the others, so I'm breaking it into pieces. Yes, we have reached action time. :) _

_This part takes place simultaneously with the last chapter (Flail Chest In Six). _

_W__arning - More nastiness ahead._

* * *

Dean had known that whips hurt, of course, but had somehow forgotten _just how much _they hurt. Each stroke that landed across his back or chest was like a tongue of white-hot fire, a scaldingly powerful stripe of pain that seemed to cut right down to his spine. It was completely impossible not to scream. It felt like being flayed alive. He began to worry that the whipping would actually kill them; and then, a little bit later, he began to worry that it wouldn't.

Nicky had started off in a raging fury, but after a few minutes of wild, flailing attack, he stopped, wiped his forehead, took a breath, and walked over to the table, his whip trailing behind him on the floor. His footsteps echoed in the sudden silence. Dean discovered that he was groaning faintly with every breath, and he heard Sam muttering "Dean? Dean? Dean? Dean?" constantly, on every single breath, like a damaged windup toy. Dean tried to answer him, but couldn't seem to get enough air to speak.

Nicky set his whip down on the table and reached down to the floor, underneath the table, pulling out a bag that Dean hadn't noticed before. Out of this bag emerged a much longer whip.

"This is my special whip," said Nicky, running his hand along it. A little smile came across his face. Carrying the new whip, he stepped almost absent-mindedly over Harlow's smoking corpse, walked right up to Sam, and held the lash end of the whip up to Sam's face. Sam blinked at it hazily and stopped his muttering stream of "Dean's".

"See?" said Nicky, showing the whip to Sam. "Nice and long. See the three ends? Check out the little knives on the sides. Oh, and the knots! Look at the quality of that braiding! And the inlay on the handle, isn't it pretty?"

Nicky then walked over to Dean and showed the whip to him too. Dean had a little trouble focusing on it, due to the blood that was dripping into his eyes from several strikes he'd taken across the face earlier, but Nicky was patient. He held the whip up for several long moments, moving slightly so that the candle-light fell on it clearly, and finally Dean got a good view.

Nicky smiled, watching Dean's face. "Hey, Harlow," he called over his shoulder. "You were right. It _is_ kind of nice having an appreciative audience."

He tested the whip several times in the air. It made a noise like _swish-SNAP... swish-SNAP_.

He turned to Sam and began to get to work.

_Swish-SNAP... swish-SNAP... swish-SNAP_.

Sam managed only one scream.

So much blood had dripped into Dean's eyes now that he couldn't clearly see what was happening, and he felt grateful for that small mercy.

"STOP. STOP RIGHT THIS INSTANT," said a clarion voice, booming from the direction of the stairwell.

_Swish-SNAP._

"I SAID STOP," said the voice. The _swish-SNAPs_ stopped. Dean still couldn't see much, but he heard a whooshing sound through the air in front of him, then a heavy thud to his right, and a wet-sounding thump. He'd heard that particular sequence of sounds enough times in his life to know it was the sound of a human body going airborne, hitting a wall and then slithering to the floor.

He heard the rhythmic creaks of someone walking down the wooden stairs; and then crisp clicks of shoes coming across the stone floor toward him. The clicks stopped just in front of Dean.

"This is _completely unacceptable_," snapped the voice from just in front of him.

Amid all the blazing pain from the lacerations on Dean's chest, suddenly there was a cool touch right over his heart. Immediately the pain eased. Dean felt another touch on his forehead, and his vision cleared. Dean blinked. Calcariel was looking directly at him from a few feet away, slowly lowering his hand.

Beyond Calcariel, Dean saw Sam hanging limply from the pulley on the charred rafter, turning slightly in mid-air. There was... a lot of blood. Harlow's body was still smoking on the floor near Sam's feet, and Nicky was crumpled on the floor by the wall to Dean's right.

Calcariel reached out toward Dean's face again, apparently for another round of healing.

"Sam," Dean croaked, his throat almost too dry to speak. "Do Sam."

Calcariel paused and nodded. He turned and walked over to Sam, glancing down with a frown at Harlow's corpse and stepping around it delicately.

Sam looked as if a gallon of red paint had been upended over him. His torso and face were almost completely coated with blood that was dripping steadily from multiple deep lacerations. Blood had already soaked through his jeans, and had started to drip from one bare foot, forming an alarmingly large puddle on the floor beneath him.

Calcariel walked in a small circle around him, studying him with a grimace, his lip curled. Then he reached closer, and touched Sam's shoulder. Almost all of Sam's criss-crossing whip marks faded, his skin sealing itself together and growing whole. But Sam looked extremely pale, his lips almost blue. He did not awaken.

Calcariel still had his hand on Sam's shoulder. He swayed slightly on his feet. He dropped his hand, blinked, and took a couple of deep breaths, and then raised his head to look at Dean. "That's all I can do at the moment," he said. "He's lost a lot of blood, but I can't replace it yet. I've had to expend a great deal of energy already today with my own brother." He scowled at Nicky, who was still lying in a motionless heap. Looking back at Dean, Calcarius said, "I heard some kind of commotion down here but I couldn't leave Ziphius immediately. I do apologize. Nicholas has exhibited a... most unfortunate lapse from professional standards of care."

"Go to hell," said Dean automatically.

Calcariel smiled faintly. "You're welcome," he said, smoothing down his pinstripe suit-coat fastidiously. Dean bit back the insult he'd been about to spit out. Perhaps it wasn't the best idea to aggravate the only one of their captors who seemed able, and willing, to heal them.

Nicky was beginning to stir, and soon he shook his head and sat up. His eyes fell on Harlow's smoking corpse, and he scrambled to his feet, saying to Calcariel, "They killed Harlow! They killed him! I don't know how, they fed him some poison or something, it was angel-light, it almost killed me!"

"It was a piece of Heavenly power," said Calcariel stonily, inspecting his cuffs and flicking a bit of dust off of one of them. He looked up at Nicky. "I felt it shatter. Even Ziphius felt it, and he's half in a coma. It released all its energy. Now. You must tell me — exactly what was it, and where did the energy go? Was it an angel-feather? It felt like an angel-feather."

Dean suddenly remembered the black feather Buddy had given him — one of the ingredients they'd used to power the Castiel-orb. Had that been an angel-feather?

"I don't know what it was," said Nicky. "Something small enough to eat. It was in his jacket." Nicky gestured at Dean, and went on, "They disguised it as candy. They tricked us. Harlow ate it, so I pushed him in the pit and —"

"You _what_?" said Calcariel, his jaw actually dropping open for a moment. He seemed stunned. A second later, he snapped his jaw shut and took a step toward Nicky. He said, as if trying to comprehend what he'd just heard, "He ate an _angel feather _disguised as _candy _and you _pushed him into the pit_?"

Calcariel took a step toward Nicky.

"Well, I had to. Jeez." said Nicky. "I mean —" He paused for a moment, belatedly realizing that there was a rather angry-looking angel advancing towards him. Calcariel took another step forward, and Nicky took a step back. Nicky said defensively, "The light would have fried me! I had to push him into the pit. I had to!"

There was a faint rumble of thunder. The air around Calcariel's shoulders seemed to shimmer, and Dean thought he saw a faint impression of shadows in the air around him.

Calcariel said, "And did the elemental take him?"

"Well, I wasn't looking right at it..."

"_What exactly happened?" _Calcariel suddenly had an angel-blade in his hand.

Nicky glanced at the blade and stammered, "I didn't, uh, I didn't get a clear look... I ..."

"Nicky hid behind me," put in Dean. Calcariel looked at him with a ferocious scowl, but Dean went on, "Basically, Nicky here ran over like a little squealing schoolgirl and hid behind me. Harlow was hanging onto Sam. Harlow had the, uh, feather thing stuck in his throat. Then Mr. Magma showed up and kinda, um, reached into Harlow's mouth and then there was a big flash of light. Then Mr. Magma went away and the floor came back." He wasn't sure why he was telling Calcariel all these details, other than the ever-reliable _Stall for time._

Calcariel froze completely still, staring at Dean. Then he slowly turned to look at Nicky again. Nicky shuffled rapidly backwards until he bumped into the wall.

"You fed... the elemental... a demon-soul... and an angel-feather?" Calcariel said quietly. There was clearly something significant about this.

"And my M&M's," said Dean. "And my jacket." Calcariel flicked a glance at Dean and and then began to advance again on Nicky, who slid sideways along the wall until he had wedged himself into a corner.

"Do you realize what you have done?" said Calcariel. His voice lowered. "You. Have. Jeopardized. _EVERYTHING_."

"But it would have fried me—"

"Do you think I give a _damn_? The elemental has been fed a _demon_ soul. You _idiot_. "

"What's wrong with a demon soul?" said Nicky, a bit defensively.

Calcariel gave a bark of astonished laughter. "My God. You _benighted imbecile!_ You just fed it _rotten food_. Lord save us. Firstly, that filthy, corrupt, putrid, twisted remnant-of-a-soul that was Harlow will _drain_ the elemental's energy, not _increase _it. We'll have to find another sacrifice now! Secondly, you blithering simpleton, elementals simply _do not enjoy _being fed rotten food! And! Additionally! Any piece of Heavenly power, from an angel-feather or whatever other source, will sting it. It will seem to it that we called it up here just to slap it." Calcariel paused for a moment, glaring at Nicky. "Tell me, Nicholas," he said quietly, "Do you think it is a good idea to rouse an _elemental_ from its million-year sleep, feed it rotten food and then slap it across the face?"

Nicky stared up at Calcariel, speechless.

"Personally I'd go with 'no' on that one, Nicky," said Dean. "Just my take on it."

"No. Indeed," said Calcariel, not even bothering to look at Dean. "No. The answer would be _no_. It is _not_ a good idea." Calcariel continued, "And do you know what that means? For the elemental?"

"Um... it'll be sick?" said Nicky.

"It'll be _angry. _Good God. You idiot. You MORON! Lord, this sets us back," said Calcariel. He shook himself; the blade disappeared up his sleeve somehow, and the shadowy wing-shapes seemed to evaporate. He broke away from Nicky and looked back at the charred area in the floor. The chalk seemed to have all disappeared; his circle was gone.

Calcariel began pacing in a precise arc, exactly tracing out the area where the chalk had been. He said, "Oh, this does set us back. Elementals _must_ be treated with respect. They _must _be treated with respect. They do not like their sleep disturbed without good reason, and without fair reward." Calcariel sighed, cast his eyes toward Heaven, and said, "God, why are you trying me so? This... and Ziphius's illness too?"

He stopped pacing and lowered his head, his hand on his chin, staring at the burned patch on the floor, which was just barely visible under the pool of Sam's blood.

Then Calcariel said, "It must be a trial. God is testing me. God is testing my resolve."

Dean suggested, "Perhaps God doesn't want you to do this at all?" Calcariel slowly turned his head to gaze at Dean, his silver eyes like lasers. Dean faltered a bit, but forced himself to go on, saying, "Maybe you've got the wrong idea here. Maybe God doesn't want you to wake the elemental? Maybe he likes the planet the way it is? Um, have you considered that?"

Calcariel said, looking at Dean, "You know, Dean, that's really just so impressive that, now that you've known about my plans for two entire hours, you've managed to come up with _the single most obvious question possible_, one that I've _been thinking about already for two hundred and fifty-three million years_ _nonstop."_

"Well, uh, you know," said Dean, "Just trying to help! Sometimes a different perspective helps."

Calcariel stared at him in something like amazement. After a long pause, he blinked and shook his head. He looked away from Dean, muttering, "Such an odd little species."

"It's really kind of a pretty planet actually —" Dean started to say, but Calcariel raised one finger and Dean's jaw snapped shut so hard he bit his tongue.

"I have done my moral duty in attempting to explain the greater picture to you," said Calcariel smoothly. He lowered his finger, and Dean's jaw relaxed enough to allow him to spit out a mouthful of blood. Calcariel went on, "That is your right as a sacrifice, and my responsibility as your host. But I don't have to listen to the babblings of a half-witted descendant of _one of Castiel's filthy rats_."

Calcariel stood in silent thought for a moment, head down, looking at the bloody charred spot. Finally he raised his head and nodded. "We will have to appease it. We will have to offer it a better offering in apology. Tonight. This can't wait till tomorrow. We must appease it tonight." He glanced at the windows; it was fully dark outside now. He said, "Midnight will be best, I think. Elementals are usually calmest at midnight."

He said to Nicky, while gesturing briskly at Sam, "Samuel's too damaged now. Elementals prefer their prey undamaged and alert, and we really must provide it with a quality meal now." He walked over to Dean and inspected him carefully, looking him over from head to foot.

"You know, I'm feeling kind of beat up," said Dean. "Also I'm getting a little woozy."

"Oh, spare me," said Calcariel witheringly. He said to Nicky, "Dean here might still be acceptable. Lord, I _wish_ you hadn't been such a complete moron, Nicholas, you really damaged them both quite a bit. We'll just have to pray that Dean looks appealing enough."

"I'm really pretty sure I won't be appealing," said Dean. "I've, like, uh, I wet my pants and everything." This was actually true — he had wet his pants, and worse, during the ordeal of the last day and half, and he was feeling fairly disgusting. But if being disgusting would keep the elemental away, Dean was all for it.

Calcariel actually seemed to take this seriously. He nodded, and said "That much at least I can fix." He walked over to Dean and touched him one more time, murmuring, "These, these _se__cretions_, I really don't know how you can stand it..." And suddenly Dean was as clean and fresh as if he'd just stepped out of the shower. Dean sniffed the air, startled to find that he smelled of lilacs now, which was a definite improvement. Calcariel did the same for Sam.

"You couldn't, ah, get rid of all the rest of the pain too? Give us some water maybe? Let us down for a minute?" Dean said. He added hopefully, "You know, I really think we'd both be more appealing to the elemental if we both, you know, rested up a bit. Got a bit of water and food? Wouldn't we be much more appetizing?"

Calcariel looked at Dean thoughtfully.

He turned to Nicky and said,"Nicholas. Here is what you will do. First. You will give Dean some water, and Samuel too if he can take it. Dean has a point; the elemental may prefer them in a more alert state. And also, there really is no need for the sacrifices to suffer more than strictly necessary. The point of this entire endeavour is to _eliminate _suffering and filth from this planet, not to increase it."

Dean couldn't help saying, "You kinda hired yourself the wrong henchmen, then." Calcariel shot him a very dark look, and Dean shut his mouth before Calcariel could shut it for him.

But Calcariel simply gave him a grim nod. He said, "You may be right. But it is what I have to work with." He returned his attention to Nicky. "Nicholas. As I said, first you will give Dean and Samuel some water. Do not untie their arms, though, no matter what they may say; we can't risk that. _Do not _let them escape _or I will be greatly displeased_. Secondly. You will get that _thing_ out of the way." — he gestured here to Harlow's body — "and I don't care _what_ you do with it, just get it out of here. Thirdly, you will move Samuel back to his old place; we'll use him tomorrow once he's reawakened. Lastly, you will put Dean here in position for the elemental. Then you will call me." Calcariel took several steps closer to Nicky, who was still standing with his back to the wall. Calcariel's angel-blade was suddenly back, and he held the point right under Nicky's chin. Calcariel said very slowly, enunciating every word, "You will do these four tasks _immediately_. You will do them _perfectly_. You will _not_ complain. You will _call me immediately _once you are done. And, Nicholas, you will _not_ damage the sacrifices." He leaned even closer, twisting the knife slightly. "There are _standards_ to uphold, Nicholas."

"But our deal—" wavered Nicky, his eyes flicking up and down from Calcariel's face to the angel-blade.

"_You broke our deal when you fed the elemental a demon-soul and an angel-feather_," said Calcariel icily, "And now you must accept the consequences. Or would you rather I invoke Clause Fifteen of our contract?"

Nicky swallowed and somehow managed to flatten himself against the wall even further. He shook his head.

Calcariel drew back and lowered his hand. He took a deep breath. He flicked his hand, and the angel-blade disappeared once more, up the sleeve of his pinstripe suit.

"In the meantime, I will tend to my brother," said Calcariel. "When all is prepared, I will draw the circle, and at midnight you will call the elemental again."

"What, by myself? It's hard by myself," said Nicky.

"_Clause. Fifteen_." said Calcariel.

Nicky paled, and nodded.

Calcariel turned and stalked away. He paused at the base of the steps and said to Dean, "I do apologize."

"Go to hell," said Dean tiredly. "you goddam sociopathi—"

"Indeed, quite," interrupted Calcariel in a calm voice, already paying Dean no attention as he mounted the stairs.

Nicky waited till the door overhead had shut. He walked very slowly over to the table and picked up a water bottle. Dean ached to see it — _god_, he was so thirsty, so desperately thirsty.

Nicky unscrewed the cap of the bottle, walked slowly over to Dean, and lifted up the bottle to Dean's mouth — Dean couldn't help leaning his head toward it, already opening his mouth — and then Nicky reached higher still and upended the bottle over Dean's head. Dean could have cried as he felt the precious water dripping down the back of his head. Some trickled down his face, but he managed to catch only a few drops in his mouth.

Nicky upended another bottle over Sam's head and said tonelessly, "He said to give you both some water. I gave you both some water." Then he walked over to Harlow's body, grabbed hold of one leg, and began to drag it toward the stairs.

* * *

Nicky took his time. It seemed to take him hours to deal with Harlow — he hauled the body upstairs and disappeared for so long that Dean wondered if he'd actually hiked out into the meadow and buried the body somewhere. Dean kept his eyes on Sam, hoarsely calling his name now and then.

But Sam didn't move.

_Calcariel wouldn't have bothered healing Sam if Sam were dead, would he?_

Of course, that had been some time ago.

As the time dragged endlessly by, Dean felt his energy fading further. Calcariel had healed the worst of the wounds, but Dean still had several welts that were making their presence felt. But the greatest problem was simply that he'd been hanging from his arms for over a day. Dean had been able to bear some weight on his feet, but his arms had taken the brunt of it. His hands had been numb for so long that Dean feared they might actually be dead from loss of blood flow; his shoulders were blazing with pain; and his arms were starting to feel very bizarre. They'd been aching ever since he awoke, and now he seemed to be losing track of where they actually were, as if both arms had become huge swollen painful balloons that kept floating around into odd positions. It was also getting hard to breathe.

And, god, he was so _incredibly_ thirsty.

The thirst, the excruciating discomfort, the exhaustion, and the pain all began to blur together into a tremendous fatigue that rolled over him in a huge wave. Dean finally had to take his eyes off Sam, and just let his head hang down again. He fell into a hazy sleep —

* * *

— and he was immediately in the upstairs room in the great dark house. Without having walked through the first floor to get there. _Huh_, thought Dean idly, _I guess if I'm already completely terrified and helpless, I can just teleport straight here and skip the whole chase scene. Good to know._

Dean automatically tried to say "Please help me," but found his throat was so dry now, even here in the dream, that he had no voice left. He couldn't even seem to whisper clearly. He had to try several times before he could get out a scratchy, hoarse: "Help me. Please?"

This was when the walls were supposed to draw back into the distance, and the soft golden light was supposed to come on. But something seemed a little wrong with the dream this time. It was stuttering. The wood-paneled walls were abruptly closer, and then further, and then closer again; patches of stone wall were occasionally flickering into visibility through them. The surface under Dean's feet was sometimes the yellow pine floorboards, and sometimes charred stone. But eventually the dream seemed to stabilize, and Dean once again found himself standing in that golden light.

Dean turned, very slowly, keeping his eyes lowered carefully. And there was the man in the coat. But he was not standing. He was lying on the floor, limp, sprawled on his back. And — miracle of miracles! — Dean was able to look _directly _at him.

Dean stood and stared.

It was Buddy.

Dean took a few slow steps closer. Of course it was Buddy. Of course. Sam had been right. It seemed obvious now that the man in the coat must have been Buddy all along. Dean took another step closer, and saw that Buddy was wearing the tan-colored coat — some kind of trenchcoat, he could see now. Buddy had on formal business attire under the coat: a white button-down shirt, a blue tie, black pants, and polished black shoes. Dean had never seen him in this outfit in real life, but found it looked completely natural on him.

Though it did not look natural to see Buddy helplessly laid out on the floor that way, sprawled on his back, his hands stirring weakly. His eyes opened, and he looked at Dean. He was trying to say something, his mouth working, but for some reason he couldn't seem to speak. There seemed to be something in his throat, or something tied around his face, a ghostly faint hazy thing that Dean could not quite see.

Dean whispered to him hoarsely, "Whoever you are — Buddy, whoever — I don't know who you are — please, please, if you can, _please_ help us. We're really in trouble, it's really bad, please, we need you. I can't tell if Sam's even alive. They're going to feed me to it at midnight. Can you help us? Please?"

Buddy gazed up at him miserably, his face very pale under the bruises. It was pretty obvious he wasn't going to be able to help.

Dean could see the distress in his eyes.

_Aw_, Dean thought, _This is just going to end up killing him too. _

Dean knelt down next to him. "Never mind," Dean told him, patting his hand. "It's okay. It's okay, Bud. You just rest, okay? You just rest. It's all right."

Dean stroked his hair back one last time and said, his throat tight, "You just rest, now. I'll see you later," though he knew he would never see Buddy again.

He stood and turned and walked to the door. The bureau was gone; the door was slightly ajar now. There was nothing but darkness visible beyond it.

Dean took hold of the door handle. There was a soft gasp behind him, and Dean thought, _I'm walking away and leaving him broken on the floor_.

He hesitated and looked back. Buddy was trying feebly to roll over and crawl towards him, but wasn't making much progress. He was still looking at Dean.

_My god, those puppy eyes_, thought Dean.

"I screwed up, Bud," Dean said, wanting desperately to explain, while also very uncertain about what exactly he was explaining. "I screwed up so bad. I did the best I could, I tried so damn hard, but I screwed up anyway. I'm sorry, Bud, I mean, I'm _so damn sorry_. And I gotta leave now." Dean paused. "It's the only way you'll survive, right? Which is the only reason I walked away in the first place, jeez, Bud, you shoulda figured that out by now. You have to survive, Bud, you have to."

For a long moment Dean still could not tear his eyes from Buddy's face. _Those eyes_, Dean thought, _Those eyes. That was the last thing I saw. The first thing I saw, and the last_. It was a fragmentary thought that really didn't make any sense at all.

Dean thought of one more thing. "Day after tomorrow, you gotta go west, okay?" he said. "No later than that. Go to Oregon. Take the Impala. It's got a key taped under the rear bumper. It's at the trailhead behind some trees." He thought a moment, and added, "Take your cat. And - Bud - I hope you find some better friends. I really do."

Then Dean had to stop talking, because his throat was not working right. His vision was blurring too, and he couldn't even really see Buddy's eyes any more — those infinitely sad, excruciatingly familiar, haunting blue eyes.

He turned unsteadily and walked out the door.

* * *

Dean blinked his eyes open to find he was hanging from his wrists again, in the basement again. His cheeks were wet.

It was dead silent.

One of the little candles had flickered out; the other was still glowing faintly. There was a glint of starlight, or moonlight perhaps, shining through the little windows. Sam was just visible as a dark shadow suspended in midair, absolutely still.

Dean began calling Sam's name periodically, in a hoarse whisper, mostly just out of habit. He didn't really expect a response, and he didn't get one.

The candle caught his attention. One lone candle, standing on the table against the stone wall. A candle, against a stone wall...

_A candle, framed in a stone archway..._

_Sam saying, "But, Dean, what if we don't recognize him?"_

Dean's head began to hurt. He shifted his eyes away from the candle, and away from Sam. He looked down at the floor and tried to think of nothing at all.

As the long hours drifted by, Dean felt weirdly sudden waves of sleepiness start to wash over him. He fought them hard, thinking, _If this is my last couple hours I am going to goddam stay awake for it. I am going to live every last goddam minute. And I am going to be here for Sam when he wakes up._

A long time passed. Sam never woke.

* * *

_A/N - Next chapter will be up tomorrow. __If you enjoyed or have comments, please review!_

___Also, to answer some questions, I originally based this off of 9/06 - except that Kevin is not in the story at all (no ulterior motives there, I just wanted to narrow it down to the core trio, as I view it). And, as most of you have picked up,__ Gadreel has been kicked out of Sam. (I didn't know how the show was going to deal with Gadreel but I just assumed Dean & Sam would kick him out somehow in a month or so) As it happens the show plot has been tracking along pretty well with the framework of this story, so I'm going to say it's from 9/09 (midseason break), taking place the following fall, in September 2014. _


	15. Remember To Call

_A/N - I know you all want Dean to figure it out faster, but, remember, he is just not having a very good day._

* * *

At last the stairs creaked, and Dean looked up. Nicky was stumbling down into the room, disheveled, covered with dirt, taking long swallows from what appeared to be a bottle of vodka. He reeled across the floor, staggered over to the cleat on the wall that held Sam's wrist rope, undid it a bit haphazardly, and looked surprised when Sam crashed heavily to the floor.

"Oops," muttered Nicky. He leaned blearily over Sam, peering at him, and hiccuped.

"Is he okay? Sam? Sam?" said Dean. Sam lay motionless. Dean said, "Nicky, he _better _be okay. He _better _still be breathing or — or — or Calcariel's going to be greatly displeased!"

"You're so — _hic _— pushy!" said Nicky, taking another chug from the bottle. "Bossy! You think you're so great, don't you. Just cause you're — _hic _— Dean friggin' Winchester. Think you're better'n everybody. Think you're so awesome just cause you had a — _hic _— stupid angel pullin' you outta Hell. You and your damn brother just zipping outta Hell like that, it's just _no fair_ ... just cause that stupid angel likes you... no _fair_... I coulda done all that cool stuff too if — _hic _— if I'd had my own friggin' angel..."

This was completely baffling. What angel? Had there been an angel involved in getting Dean and Sam out of Hell?

But Dean had to set that puzzle aside, for he was almost certain he'd just seen Sam's foot twitch. "Sam?" he called. "Sam, you hearing me? Nicky — you gotta make sure he's okay, _please_. You gotta give him some water." A flash of inspiration hit him. "Remember Clause Fifteen!"

"All _right_, okay, get off my back, _jeez._ You are_ no fun at all_." complained Nicky. He staggered over to the table, got one of the bottles of water and went back to Sam. He tripped on Sam's arm, lost his balance and nearly fell right on top of Sam, but finally managed to put a tiny bit of water into Sam's mouth.

"He swallowed it," Nicky reported after a moment. "Happy?"

Sam was alive! Dean was immensely relieved. "Give him some more."

"Oh, come on."

"The point of this endeavour is to _reduce _suffering, Nicky," said Dean sternly. "Clause Fifteen! Give him some more water."

"This job completely sucks," muttered Nicky, pouring a tiny bit more water into Sam's mouth. Sam coughed, and swallowed. Nicky muttered, "I am _never _making a deal with an angel again. Don't know how you put up with yours, man... Angels, jeez... so _judgmental_...all those _lectures..._" He tried to give Sam another bit of water and accidentally poured it over Sam's chin instead. He was muttering under his breath "...friggin' feathers... goddam overgrown birds, is what they all are...think they're such hot stuff... don't play fair, either... angel-blades up their friggin sleeves all'a friggin time... got all the weapons-a-Heaven and stuff, it's just _no fair_...I really oughta take it up with the committee..."

Dean missed a lot of this, as he was suddenly trying to fight off another of the oddly strong waves of sleepiness. He kept almost nodding off and then jerking awake. With some struggle he managed to keep his eyes open and keep calling to Sam. Sam eventually stirred, moving his feet slowly. "Dean?" he muttered.

"Sammy! You're okay, you hear me? You just hang in there, okay? Talk to me, Sam? You okay?"

"Yeah," said Sam slowly. "I'm... fine..."

_That's a Winchester "fine" if there ever was one_, thought Dean. But before he could say anything else, Nicky said brightly, "He says he's fine, all righty then, back up you go!" Nicky staggered up to his feet and dragged Sam back over to his original spot. Dean tried to talk Sam into resisting, but Sam seemed totally incapable of even moving his limbs, and pretty soon Nicky got Sam hauled up by his wrists again. Sam's eyes slid closed once again, but at least Dean knew now that he was alive.

"I could use some water too," said Dean. "Clause Fifteen, ya know."

"Nice try," said Nicky. "but you look just peachy. Got your eyes open and everything. So I'm just gonna string you up, call damn Mr. Magma and then I'm going home and then I'm sending around a memo _immediately_ to the committee, first thing, 'cause we _definitely_ have to have better contracts for angel-deals, and then I'm gonna go drinking for about a century or two. But hey... we still got an hour..." He grabbed his vodka bottle, slunk to the corner and started to swig the whole bottle down.

Dean tried the "Clause Fifteen" threat a few more times, but Nicky seemed to have retreated into his own private vodka-fueled world now.

Another strange wave of exhaustion was tugging Dean down into sleep. His eyelids drooped, and his head nodded forward. He fought it valiantly for several more minutes, trying to stay alert, but at last it began to overwhelm him. He thought, _Well, now that I know Sam's alive, maybe I can take just a quick nap_ —

* * *

—and he was instantly in the great dark house again, this time standing by the fireplace with the wing-pieces in his hands. Buddy was standing right in front of him, shaking him by the shoulders, yelling "DEAN! DEAN!" He was wearing the same outfit he'd had upstairs, trenchcoat and all.

"Dean! Finally!" said Buddy. "I thought you were _never_ going to fall asleep. Dean, I can't find you. The trail's very difficult to follow at night. Where are you?"

"Wait," said Dean slowly. "Weren't you, like, dying?"

Buddy nodded impatiently, waving his hand as if he were brushing away a minor detail of little interest. "Yes, yes. I got better. Not totally, but good enough. Where are you?"

"But ... you were so sick ... how did you ..."

"I called in a favor," interrupted Buddy. "Never mind about that. _Where are you?"_

"I'm right here," said Dean, blinking down at the wing-pieces in his hands. "I'm right here."

"Yes, Dean, I mean, where in the canyon are you?"

Dean didn't understand at all.

He started to hold out the wings toward Buddy.

Buddy pushed his hands down. "Dean. Listen to me —_ "_

"Don't you want your wings?" Dean said dizzily, holding the wings out again.

"_Never mind about the damn wings,_" Buddy snapped. "Dean, we don't have much time —"

Dean felt hurt that Buddy didn't want the wings. He'd been trying so hard, for so long, to get the wings back where they belonged. "I was just trying to help," he said woefully. He felt suddenly on the verge of tears. "I'm sorry, Buddy. I was trying to help. I was just trying to help, I didn't mean for any of this to happen..."

Buddy sighed and closed his hands over Dean's. "Okay. Okay. It's all right, Dean." Dean was sniffling now and Buddy stared at him. "You're worse than I realized," he said, frowning. "Dean. Calm down. Dean — all right, all right, give me those." He took the wing-pieces and stuffed them hurriedly into the pocket of his coat. "You're not understanding. Let me start over. Dean, this is a dream. In real life you are somewhere in Death Canyon. Do you know where?"

Dean tried to think. He couldn't even seem to remember what "Death Canyon" meant exactly, but a fuzzy image rose in his mind of a building in a meadow. "Um. A building... Stone."

"In the meadow?"

"Yeah. I guess."

"North side or south side?"

Dean had no idea. "It's a building..." he said vaguely, "...in a meadow."

Buddy sighed and rubbed his forehead. He thought a moment. "Let's try this. As soon as you wake, start calling me. I may be able to home in on your voice." He looked at Dean closely. "Do you understand?"

Dean was gazing raptly at Buddy's face. God, he looked _so familiar_.

"I've known you for more than two days," said Dean.

Buddy immediately looked alarmed. He said, shaking his head rapidly, "No, no,_ don't _start that now or you'll start having seizures. And, knowing you, probably at exactly the worst moment. Don't think about that. Don't think about the past _at all_. Just start calling me, all right?'

"I don't have your phone number," said Dean.

Buddy's mouth quirked in a half-smile. He said, "Just call me like you always do, Dean. Like you do every night. Just — "

* * *

— Dean woke abruptly as he crashed down to the floor, his head striking the floor with a vicious _crack_. The blow was so blindingly painful that for a moment Dean was sure he was going to throw up. Before he could recover, his wrist-rope suddenly went tight and he was being dragged across the room, stone scraping roughly against his skin.

He was so stunned from the blow to his head that it took him several moments to comprehend what was going on: Nicky was stringing Dean up from the charred rafter. Dean had originally had a plan in mind that he would nimbly break free while Nicky was doing this, and then he'd defeat Nicky with a few masterful, professionally-placed punches, and then he'd rescue Sam. But now that it was actually happening, he found that all he could do was kick his feet feebly. His legs simply weren't obeying his commands, and his arms now felt like airy, light balloons that were only attached to his shoulders by the thinnest of threads.

Soon Dean was swinging from the rafter. It turned out to be _incredibly_ painful to have all his weight hanging from his wrists, to not be able to bear even a bit of weight on his feet. How on earth had Sam taken it for so long? He wanted to look for Sam, but the whole room seemed to be warping around him. Black spots were swimming in front of his eyes, and Dean knew he was losing his edge. He was getting delirious — he was too exhausted — he was too dehydrated — he was losing the ability to think clearly. _Think, Dean! _he admonished himself. _Stay focused! Aren't you supposed to be doing something? Somebody wanted you to do something!_

Nicky fastened the end of Dean's wrist-rope to the cleat on the wall, walked over to the stairwell and yelled at the top of his lungs "ANGEL! Oh motherfucking bloody bastard AAANGEL! Parts one through four are fucking ACCOMPLISHED, all right?"

A few minutes later Calcariel came down the stairs.

Nicky said, "I did everything I was supposed to do. And now I am calling you. Ta-da."

Dean remembered, _I'm supposed to be calling somebody. _But who? And how?

He was distracted by Calcariel, who came walking calmly up to him.

Calcariel said, "Dean. Just one last thing. Where did you get that angel-feather? They're not exactly common, you know."

"Oh," said Dean hoarsely, "A little bird gave it to me."

Calcariel scowled, and opened his mouth to say something. Then he sighed, saying, "Oh, never mind. I suppose it doesn't matter any more. Because — it's almost midnight! I believe that this trial that God has set for me is at last drawing to an end. I have succeeded!" He sighed, sounding quite relieved. "I suppose the feather was simply part of the trial. And I have passed the trial. I have proved my resolve, I have surmounted all the difficulties, and God is smiling upon me. I believe now everything will go quite smoothly." He produced another piece of chalk from the pocket of his pinstripe suit, and turned his attention to the floor.

Dean was glad Calcariel had decided not to pursue the question about the feather. For the truth was Dean couldn't seem to remember where the feather had come from. Where had he gotten the black feather?

A confused chain of images formed in his mind, flipping into view in random order like cards tossed into the wind. Feather. Bird. Wings. Feather. Bird. Buddy.

Feather. Wings. Bird. Little bird. Black wings. A bird. _A little bird gave it to me. _

Sam saying, _We've gotten stupid, Dean._

Dean ground his teeth, and concentrated with all his might, pushing through the fog. He felt an enormous flare of pain in his head, but he managed to catch hold of one scrap of a thought, and it suddenly came to him that he'd actually told Calcariel the truth: _a bird of some kind_ really had given him the feather.

_Buddy, handing him the feather._

_Buddy, taking the marble wings._

_Buddy, saying: Just call me like you always do. Like you do every night._

"Oh, right, that was it," Dean said out loud, very relieved. "I'm supposed to do what I do every night."

But what the hell did he do every night? Dean couldn't remember that either. His head was pounding so brutally that he was afraid his skull was actually going to split apart, and his vision was swimming, just as it had that night when he'd nearly passed out at Buddy's place. Through the haze he saw Calcariel step back, and set his piece of chalk on the table again. The circle was complete; the runes were all drawn. Nicky was hesitating, white-faced now, saying, "It doesn't work as well with just one demon. It really doesn't bind it as well," and Calcariel was saying "_Clause Fifteen_, Nicholas," and Nicky was shuffling unhappily onto one of the runes, beginning a chant in a wavering voice, and Sam was absolutely still again, and the house began to shake — and Dean was suddenly wide awake. And terrified.

_Just call me like you always do. Like you do every night. _

Dean heard himself saying, in a hoarse desperate whisper, "Please, please help me, please help me, please help us, here I am, I'm here, we're both here, we need you, I need you, I need you, I need you..."

Calcariel glanced at him, puzzled, but then just shrugged, and turned, and walked up the stairs. "_Don't _disappoint me, Nicholas," he called over his shoulder.

The stone floor inside the circle began to glow crimson. The crimson changed to red, and to orange and yellow, and finally to white, as it had before. Dean could feel the searing heat blasting up at him. He closed his eyes, still repeating his hopeless, useless little prayer, keeping his eyes tightly squinched shut; he didn't want to look down. Then he couldn't help it, he opened his eyes and looked down, and immediately knew why Sam had whimpered.

The cylindrical tunnel extended down below him for only about twenty feet, and then widened dramatically, opening out into a great hole that hung over an unfathomably huge underground cavern. Dean had the impression that it extended for _miles_ to either side. And as far as the eye could see, there was nothing but a roiling sea of magma. An actual ocean of lava, slowly stirring and bubbling. Great slow waves of red and orange were moving over the surface, flowing slowly into each other; bubbles of bright yellow bursting now and then.

A slow movement seemed to pass through the magma, all at once. It all began to stir and bunch together. It began rising up. Dean realized, stunned, that the entire ocean of magma was one gigantic living creature. And it was reaching one long, long thread of glowing orange lava up toward him.

Dean closed his eyes and said "I really need you a lot, _right the fuck now_."

He heard glass shatter, and opened his eyes. Nicky's head jerked up and he stopped in mid-chant. There was somebody tumbling down through one of the little windows.

It was Buddy. Of course it was Buddy.

Dean felt a brief, astonished flash of hope. But then he saw that Buddy had landed awkwardly, staggering, hunching over; and Dean remembered that Buddy was only a man. And an injured man, at that. While Nicky was a demon.

Nicky simply waved his hand, and Buddy was instantly flung across the room to the wall by the staircase, slamming into it with a horrible _thump_. Nicky grinned, and moved his hand again, and slammed Buddy into the edge of the table. Buddy hit it hard, and crumpled to the floor.

Nicky lifted his hand, and this time his "special whip" flew straight into his grasp. He drew back his hand - _swish_ - and lashed it forward - _SNAP _- and the lash caught Buddy straight across the face as he lay there sprawled on the floor. Buddy gasped, and three long red lines of blood appeared across his face.

Dean, watching all this, could only whisper, "No."

Nicky said, "Well, well. Things are looking up. At least I get to play with somebody!" he said. He seemed suddenly in a much better mood.

He drew back the whip again, and lashed it forward again.

But this time Buddy reached out, quick as a flash, and caught the end of the whip. It wrapped around his arm in a heartbeat, and must have cut his arm badly, but Buddy hung on tight. Nicky was so startled he didn't think to let go of the handle; Buddy yanked hard, and Nicky fell flat on his stomach by the side of the pit, right in front of Buddy. Buddy instantly flung a coil of the whip around Nicky's throat, and a moment later they were rolling in a tight messy struggle on the ground.

Buddy fought hard. He was quick, and nimble, and skilled. Even when injured.

But ... Buddy was only a man. Nicky was a demon.

They were rolling around on the floor, terribly close to the edge of the pit (Dean was screaming at Buddy to watch out), and Buddy was very nearly succeeding at choking Nicky with the whip, when Nicky got a hand free and did a sudden strange gesture. Buddy gasped, weakened visibly, and lost his grip. Nicky shook free of the loop of whip and jumped to his feet, holding his hand up in the air in a half-closed fist. Buddy choked, clawing at his chest.

Nicky looked down at Buddy, and closed his fist entirely. Buddy was lying right at the edge of the pit now, writhing on the floor, clutching at his heart, the whip tangled around him. Nicky was standing just behind him, a foot coming back, about to kick Buddy over the edge.

Nicky began to laugh... and Buddy suddenly had something shining in one hand.

There was a flash of silver.

Nicky's laugh cut off abruptly. He looked down in surprise at the silver haft of the angel-blade that was buried in his heart.

"Oh," he said. "Crap." White light began to pour from his mouth and eyes as he toppled forward, right over Buddy, and fell straight into the pit.

Dean couldn't help looking down, and saw Nicky fall right into the coil of lava that was now rising through the tunnel below him. There was a blaze of white light and a burst of black smoke, and the entire vast glowing coil twitched and flinched back. It paused.

There was a deep, throaty rumbling noise from down below, and Dean felt the whole house shake.

He looked at Buddy, who was rolling away from the pit, shaking free of the whip, winded, gasping. Buddy stared up at Dean's wrists and followed the rope with his eyes, looking first at the pulley on the rafter, and then over to the cleat on the wall. But what could he possibly do? There was no way to get Dean down... well, not without Dean falling straight down into the magma chamber.

"Get Sam," said Dean hoarsely. "Get Sam and get out of here."

At that moment a cool, clear voice said "_Unbelievable_." It was Calcariel, standing at the top of the stairs.

Calcariel simply held up a hand, and Buddy was smoothly shoved back into the wall behind him, just under the broken window. He stood pinned there, his arms pressed to the wall, staring at Calcariel.

Calcariel advanced down the stairs, his hand still up, looking right at Buddy. Buddy stared back in silence, his face a sheet of blood.

"Unbelievable," Calcariel repeated, reaching the bottom of the stairs. "Unbelievable." He smiled. "God has truly blessed my endeavors here. The very moment that I needed a third human sacrifice — here you are! You! Delivered _right into my hands_. At just the right moment. You, _human_. And you've even taken care of that disappointing Nicholas for me. So perfect. It is so sweetly perfect." He took a few more steps into the room, and said, "And in just a few minutes more, the illustrious Mr. Magma will rise, and I will deliver Dean to him, and then you'll go next, and then I think Sam will be ready. Three sacrifices! Three! This should be enough, I think — even despite the two demons — yes, with you in the mix, this will be enough. I can finish this _tonight_. Oh, this could not possibly be more perfect!" He smiled, gazing upwards toward Heaven. "I should have had more faith. Thank you, my father. _Thank you._"

There was a great roaring rumble from below.

Buddy looked at Dean, and Dean met his eyes.

"Oh, god, Bud..." said Dean. "Why didn't you take the Impala?"

Buddy just smiled.

"Ah — there you are. Greetings," said Calcariel. A great coil of lava was lifting out of the pit, _right next to Dean_, mere feet away, a burning loop of vivid color. Dean held Buddy's eyes as long as he could, till the lava-coil rose right up in front of his face. Then the room went pitch black and the air was choking again, and all Dean could see was that terrifying coil of color. It looked slightly different this time, darker; all reds and maroons and blacks this time, the colors all braided together. It bunched tightly together, began to spin, and then it burst into flame, a tight whipping tornado of colored heat. Red and maroon and black in the center, a wreath of blue and yellow flame lashing around its perimeter.

"_Beautiful_," murmured Calcariel.

And then the magma did something completely new. It split into four tongues, four long narrow tongues of spinning flame that snaked out _past the circle. It's out of the circle_, thought Dean, astonished; _it's out, it's free!_ One tongue of roiling spinning flame extended straight toward Sam, who was still hanging limply, unconscious. A second tongue of flame snaked over toward Buddy, who was still pinned against the wall; the flaming rope nosed right up to him like a curious dog, so close his leather jacket began to smoke, Buddy grimacing at the heat. The third tongue of flame stretched languidly toward Calcariel and spread out widely like a gigantic hand, as if to corral him, and Calcariel was forced to back up into the wall behind him, looking very startled.

And the fourth tongue of flaming lava reached up toward Dean again. It lifted up in front of Dean's face and flattened out like a gigantic cobra a few feet in front of him, a great hot writhing wall of flame. The heat was terrifying, like a blast furnace yawning before him, about to swallow him whole.

"Back! Back, I say!" Calcariel yelled. "You're supposed to stay in the circle! You're supposed to take only the sacrifice in the circle! Get into the circle!"

Buddy said, in a hoarse, low voice, "You really needed two demons to do the incantation, Calcariel. And I'm afraid I distracted the one you had."

"_Back, _I said! I _command_ you!" shouted Calcariel. "How _dare _you! I am an angel! I am doing the work of God! You must do as I command!"

All four tongues of flame suddenly went dark red, crackling and hissing, with hot, bright sparks flying off of them.

Something suddenly became clear:

Mr. Magma was _very_ angry.

* * *

For a long, long moment all Dean heard was the throaty hissing roar of that yawning, molten cobra before him. He actually felt his eyebrows sizzling, and felt his scalp burning as tiny sparks hit him.

There was another of those low, train-like rumbles, shaking the whole foundation of the house.

Buddy spoke unexpectedly. He said, "No, sir, it was not me who woke you."

Another rumble.

Buddy said, "Nor was it the two who are hanging from the ropes."

"Are you _talking _to it?" Dean blurted out.

Buddy gave him a very sharp glance and put one hand up toward Dean — clearly meaning, _shut up_ _immediately_.

Another long, low rumble.

Buddy said, "I believe it was the angel who woke you." He glanced at Calcariel. "You are the one who arranged all this?"

"Yes," said Calcariel to the magma-hand in front of him, "It was I that woke you, kind sir. But —"

More rumbling. Buddy said to Calcariel, "He's had _two _rotten meals? And been stung _twice_? Just tonight?"

"That wasn't — none of that was my fault!"

More rumbling.

Buddy said, "You threw in some little round things and some fabric too? You threw in some trash?"

_Oh, shit_, thought Dean. _My M&M's and my coat._

"Those were Dean's!" Calcariel said. "I swear, I had nothing to do with those."

A louder rumble. Buddy looked at Dean, his face pale. "Dean, it's asking you to confirm. Were those yours?"

Dean hesitated. Buddy said hastily, "You _must_ tell it the truth, Dean. And — be _very_ polite."

"Uh," gasped Dean at the molten blast furnace in front of him. "Uh, Mr. Magma, sir, yes, sir, the, the, the, the, M&M's were mine, sir, that's the round things, the little round chocolate guys, and, and, the, the coat was mine too — I'm sorry, um, Mr. Magma, your highness — I didn't mean to — actually I was tied up anyway and Nicky —"

A long harsh rumble cut him off.

Calcariel said, "The demon-souls were _not _my fault and the angel-feather was quite an accident. None of that was my fault. None! And the trash, as you've heard, was all Dean's."

"You woke him," said Buddy.

"But I didn't do _any of _the other things," said Calcariel.

"But you were in charge. You planned it all," gasped Dean. Buddy, Calcariel and all four tongues of magma turned to look at him. (It turned out to be extremely clear where a burning tongue of magma was directing its attention.) It occurred to Dean it might not really be the best idea, actually, to try to join in on a thoughtful conversation about personal responsibility between an insane angel and a telepathic hunter/dreamwalker/bird/whatever-Buddy-was, while hanging suspended from your arms, delirious, over a mile-wide sentient magma monster whose flaming lava tentacles were wandering all over the room. But Dean soldiered on gamely, gasping to Calcariel, "You started ... the show. You ... drew the circle. The demons ... were working ... for you."

There was a _very_ long rumble.

"Mr. Magma agrees with you, Dean," said Buddy softly.

Calcariel only had time to shoot Dean a single astonished look, when the four magma tentacles suddenly whipped back into the center of the room, bunched up and reformed into a sort of giant flaming Venus-flytrap shape, which then folded around Calcariel and plucked him up off the floor.

At first Calcariel made no sound. Instead there were suddenly immense black wings stretching from his shoulders, beating wildly. He was writhing within Mr. Magma's grip, his angel-blade flashing, cutting sharp silver strokes into the magma, each one leaving a brief blaze of silver light. His feathers began bursting into flame, one by one.

His blade clattered to the floor as the rest of his feathers began to catch fire. He screamed at last, and it was an awful sound. Buddy managed to crawl closer, right under the writhing lava-beast and the great flapping wings, and he picked up the blade. He looked up, aimed, and almost threw it, and then hesitated. Dean got one glimpse at Buddy's face and knew immediately that he simply wanted to end Calcariel's suffering.

But Mr. Magma didn't like angel-blades.

Calcariel's wings were completely aflame now. He screamed again.

There was a tremendous explosion of light.

* * *

_A/N - __Next chapter tomorrow. I've got to say, you all are awesome readers - you are all so sharp with the clues and the references, and you're all being very patient with me. Yes, there is actually a plan that I've been sticking to from the start, and it is slowly unfolding like BEAUTIFUL WINGS, so please stick with it and your patience WILL be rewarded, I promise._

_ If you like or have comments, please review! Reviews are how you pat me on the head. :)_


	16. Off Trail

Dean opened his eyes.

The pit was gone; the floor was back. Mr. Magma had disappeared again, and there seemed to be nothing left of Calcariel other than a few drifting pieces of ash. A long, slow rumble was fading into silence. By some miracle the little candle was still alight, casting faint, flickering yellow light over the room.

Buddy was on his knees, Calcariel's angel-blade lying nearby. He had one hand over his eyes, the other hand bracing him against the floor.

"Buddy?" Dean whispered. Buddy didn't answer at first, and Dean realized he had been very near to Calcariel when the explosion-of-light had happened. _Hope he got his eyes closed in time_, he thought. _Oh, and, all that being-slammed-across-the-room stuff probably didn't help_.

Buddy raised his head at last, blinking at Dean owlishly. His face seemed all blood and bruises, but Dean was relieved to see he at least still had his eyes.

Buddy said, "We have to get out of here." He stuck the angel-blade up the sleeve of his leather jacket and got to his feet, looking rather wobbly. He said, "He's giving us some time to get clear but we must hurry."

"Who?" gasped Dean. "Ziphius?"

"No. Mr. Magma," said Buddy. He tottered his way over to the wall, his right arm wrapped around his ribs again. When he reached the wall, he leaned his head against it and took a few uneven breaths, then sort of slid along the wall, using it for support, till he got to the cleat that was holding Dean's wrist-rope.

"I will try to lower you slowly," he said to Dean. "But you may wish to brace yourself." He unwound the slack of the rope from the cleat, leaving a few loops in place to slow the rope down, and began to feed the rope back through the pulley.

As Dean's feet touched the ground he tried to "brace himself", but his legs simply crumpled like tissue paper, and he slowly folded to the ground like a rag doll.

Buddy wobbled over to Sam's cleat next, and managed to get Sam down too. He went directly to Sam and checked him for a few moments, feeling his pulse and looking into his eyes, and untying Sam's wrists.

Dean wanted to sit up to look at Sam, but found he couldn't move at all.

"He okay?" said Dean hoarsely.

"He's alive," said Buddy, which wasn't really all that reassuring. "Dean, did Sam lose some blood?"

"Yeah," Dean said.

A pause. "How much?"

Yeah... definitely not very reassuring.

"A lot," said Dean hoarsely.

Buddy just shook his head. He then came over to Dean and untied Dean's wrists. As Dean tried to move his arms back to a normal position for the first time in a day and a half, all the muscles of his shoulders and back suddenly seized up in a terrible cramp that seemed to run the whole length of Dean's body. His arms and hands warped into a strange knot in front of his chest, and his back twisted, entirely out of his control. It hurt almost as badly as the whip had, and Dean couldn't help whimpering. Buddy crouched next to him, frowning.

"Dean?"

"Something's wrong," said Dean through gritted teeth. "Just take Sam and go. Leave me here."

"No," said Buddy calmly. He studied Dean a moment. Dean was on his side, and Buddy ran his hand gently along Dean's back. "It's the circulation returning," Buddy said a moment later. "Your muscles will relax in a minute, I think."

"It ... hurts."

"That's quite clear from your expression," Buddy said. "Wait it out. Try to breathe." He ran his hands down Dean's back a few more times, a cool, professional motion that seemed to help the muscles relax a tiny bit. He rubbed Dean's hands (which were still completely numb) and then began moving Dean's arms slowly, bending the elbows and gently working the shoulder joints till the worst of the spasm subsided.

Dean gasped, "Water?" Buddy nodded, and went across the room — he was walking fairly well now — and picked up two of the water bottles from the table. Dean thought, _Things are looking up! One out of the three of us can actually walk all the way across a room! _Buddy brought the two water bottles back to Dean, sat down, and opened one bottle. Dean suddenly felt so extremely desperate for the water that he tried to grab the bottle, but his arms were still not behaving at all and just flailed around in the air wildly, almost knocking the bottle out of Buddy's hands.

"Shh," said Buddy, batting Dean's hands away easily. He held Dean's head up with one hand. "Here. Drink."

He held the bottle to Dean's lips, and Dean gulped down swallow after swallow of the precious, wonderful water. It seemed the single most delicious drink he had ever had in his entire life. He drank the entire bottle in one go, Buddy opened the second, and Dean drank that one too. The terrible thirst eased at last. Buddy set Dean's head down gently and Dean took a ragged breath, closing his eyes.

He felt a soft touch on his shoulder.

Dean opened his eyes. Buddy was peering at him from very close.

"Better?" asked Buddy.

Dean nodded.

"We have to get you both on your feet," Buddy said, sitting back up and looking over at Sam with a frown. "I'm afraid I won't be able to carry even one of you, and we _have_ to get out of here. Mr. Magma is being rather generous for an elemental — it's only a little past midnight, so he's still calm—" (Dean thought, _What we just saw was calm?) _"— but I doubt he understands the concept of human recovery time. We really need to get going. See if you can sit up."

Buddy coaxed Dean up to a sitting position, managed to get him on his feet, half-dragged him over to the wall near the broken window, and propped him against the wall. The moment Buddy let go, Dean's legs folded instantly and he slithered to the floor, his back against the wall, shivering. Buddy looked at him a moment, and then took off his leather jacket, shook the angel-blade out of it somehow, and managed to get it onto Dean, threading Dean's limp arms into the sleeves. "This never fit me anyway," muttered Buddy, zipping it up for him.

Buddy dragged the table under the broken window, climbed up on the table and began using Calcariel's angel-blade to knock a few lethal-looking glass shards out of the window frame. Dean just sat there, leaning against the wall, huddled in the jacket, shuddering. His arms were throbbing heavily, and his hands felt now as if they were on fire. He watched Buddy dully for a minute, and then realized what Buddy was doing.

"Can't we just go up the stairs?" said Dean.

"Ziphius is up there. The orbs don't always knock an angel out completely," said Buddy. "We really can't risk it. If he even has any power left at all, we won't..." Buddy paused, cocking his head as if listening to something. He added, "In fact... Ziphius is awake. Not strong, but he's awake."

_How does he do that? _thought Dean, and a loose chain of thoughts came wandering through his mind:

_How exactly are you overhearing them?_

_You're pretty good with a blade, seems to me._

_A little bird gave the feather to me... Some kind of a bird..._

_Bird. Feather. Wings. _

"Are you. Um. Are you an angel?" said Dean, shivering, wide-eyed.

Buddy gave him a sharp look. "_Don't_ get distracted, Dean. And no, I'm not an angel. " He knocked the last of the glass pieces out of the way, bent down to grab an armful of Sam's and Dean's possessions from the table — Sam's jacket, their shirts and shoes, the demon-knife and angel-blades, the last of the water. He shoved it all through the window in a heap, repeating, "I'm not an angel. You heard Calcariel."

_Oh right, Calcariel was going to use him as a HUMAN sacrifice. Right, right. _Then Dean remembered, _Oh and... Buddy stepped on that angel-ward too_.

Buddy wasn't an angel. Now Dean felt embarrassed. He remembered that earlier he'd actually been certain that Buddy was some sort of giant feathery bird, and he thought, _I must be delirious_.

"Dean, we have to get up out of this window," Buddy said, clambering down next to him. "Sam's not in good shape. This will be tricky."

"That's ... a problem, yeah," said Dean, trying to sound alert. "Tricky. Yeah. Yeah, that's... tricky..."

Buddy gave him another sharp look. He leaned closer, speaking very clearly and slowly as if Dean were hard of hearing. "Dean, I'm going to put you up on the table. Then, I'll go through the window first. Then, you'll need to climb up to me. I'll help you. Okay?" Dean had to think about this plan; it seemed quite complicated. While Dean was thinking, Buddy hauled Dean to his feet and managed, after a good deal of struggle, to get Dean up on the table and then actually standing. The window was at about eye-level now. Buddy stood next to him, took a few breaths, touched his own side tentatively, gritted his teeth, and clambered up through the window.

Then he reached both hands back through the window, saying, "Give me your hands. Climb up to me, Dean."

Dean felt awfully wobbly, but tried his best. His hands now felt like giant itching paws, his arms like peculiar contraptions that he could almost (but not quite) operate by a sort of distant remote-control. Concentrating hard, he steered the remote-control arms upwards and pushed the giant hands in Buddy's direction. Buddy got hold of his wrists and yanked hard, bracing his feet against the edges of the frame. Dean almost cried out at the sensation of pressure around his wrists again, which sent electrical shocks all through his arms, but he managed to get his head and shoulders through the window-frame and wiggled partway through. Then his energy died completely and he was stuck there, lying half in and half out of the window, his face turned to the side. He felt very tired.

Surely he could close his eyes for just a moment. Just a quick little nap.

"_Dean!_" hissed Buddy.

Dean drifted away.

He felt a bright blow of pain on his face. Someone was slapping him. Dammit - he felt _so exhausted_, and he just wanted to sleep.

"_Dean! Wake up!_" said a very familiar voice.

"Go away, Cas," Dean muttered. "Cas ... leave me alone. Lemme sleep..." He blinked his eyes open for a moment, and saw Buddy staring at him, his hand frozen in mid-slap.

Something in Buddy's expression made Dean come awake again.

"Pull!" Buddy hissed. "Pull with your arms! You have to!" Buddy began yanking hard again on Dean's arms, and Dean struggled to wake up, tried to operate his remote-control arms correctly, and managed to wiggle a bit further through the window. "Pull harder!" said Buddy. At last Buddy reached down and managed to hook a hand around one of Dean's thighs. After a few dicey moments he hauled Dean bodily through the little window, as if dragging a huge, sluggish fish onto a boat.

They both collapsed outside the window, Dean on his stomach, Buddy next to him on his back. Buddy was wheezing, both arms wrapped around his ribcage again.

"Sorry about that," said Dean, a little more awake now.

"It's... okay," said Buddy, gasping.

"How you doin'?" Dean said. "Hey, how's those ribs?"

"Awful," said Buddy.

"Fun working together, huh?"

Buddy took a few more wheezing breaths. "That's ... sarcasm, right?" he said.

"Um. Yeah."

"Let me try," said Buddy. He took another wheezing breath and said, "This is the most fun I've ever had in my life."

"Nailed it," said Dean.

"This is way too much fun," said Buddy. He sat up, took one more breath, and disappeared back through the window.

Dean leaned his head in through the window and saw Buddy dragging Sam by one foot, doggedly pulling him closer to the window.

"Sammy," called Dean softly. Sam really did not look good. He was flat on his back, looked white a sheet and was not moving at all. Buddy seemed to be checking his pulse and calling to him, but Sam's eyes remained closed. Buddy shook him, called his name, slapped him, and tried to give him some water. Sam stubbornly refused to awaken.

Buddy looked up at Dean.

Dean had not the least idea what to recommend, and just stared back down at him. Buddy gazed up at Dean for a long moment in silence, his eyes clouded with worry.

There was a shuffling sound of footsteps overhead. A slow, dragging sound... but definitely motion. Dean and Buddy both glanced up at the ceiling, and then looked at each other again, wide-eyed.

"Vanishing sigil?" suggested Dean.

Buddy came over to the window and shook his head, whispering very quietly, "He already knows we're down here. He'd just freeze us. Right now he's just calling Calcariel though — I don't think he realizes what's happened. He's not worried about us yet. If we can just get Sam out the window we have a chance."

Then the ground shook.

"Oh, that's just perfect!" whispered Dean, rolling his eyes. "Now just add in the demon elk and we'll have the full set!"

"Don't tempt fate, Dean," whispered Buddy intently. "Calling a living thing can send energy to it." Then his expression brightened. "Oh. I just thought of something. There's one thing that might work." He gazed back at Sam, bit his lip, and muttered "Worth it," to himself. He turned back to Dean and said in a low whisper, "There's some feathers in the inner pocket of your jacket. Give me one. Quickly now."

Dean found the feathers - a small set of them, each about four inches long, slightly curved. They looked just like the orb-feathers, black and shining. They shimmered in the starlight, faint iridescent patterns chasing over them.

Dean handed one to Buddy. Buddy knelt down by Sam, wiped one hand across the blood on his own face, and then drew some kind of complicated bloody rune on Sam's naked chest, right over Sam's heart, right across the half-healed whip marks. Then Buddy placed the black feather on Sam's chest, on top of the rune.

He bent close to Sam and whispered something, a low-pitched slow chant.

A very thin, faint golden tendril snaked out of Buddy's chest, pierced the feather, and dove into Sam's chest, like a thin golden wire connecting the two of them. The rune and feather glowed faintly. _What the hell? _thought Dean.

It only lasted for a few seconds. Then the golden tendril faded. The rune stopped glowing; the feather crumbled to dust. Buddy wobbled and slumped down a bit by Sam's side, leaning against one of the legs of the table.

And Sam opened his eyes. He stared directly up at Buddy for a moment in confusion, glanced all around the room and sat up abruptly. He looked wide awake. "What the hell happened? What's going on?" he said.

"Long ... story," said Buddy weakly.

The ground trembled again.

"Sam! We gotta go!" hissed Dean from the window. "Now! Get up here!"

Sam caught Dean's urgency, and snapped into action without any further questions. He stood, yanked Buddy to his feet, and in a moment he was shoving Buddy bodily up through the window. Dean pulled Buddy through, and then Sam clambered up through the window all by himself.

The roles had been reversed - it was now Buddy who was near collapse, while Sam seemed a whirlwind of energy. In about thirty seconds Sam had thrown his jacket on, tossed all the remaining angel- and demon-blades into the inner pocket of his jacket, somehow grabbed all the shoes and shirts in one hand, bounced to his feet and yanked Dean to his feet too. Dean was actually starting to feel a little more normal, and together Dean and Sam got Buddy upright between them, each holding one of his arms. Dean could feel him wobbling.

They steered Buddy away from the house, stumbling across the starlit meadow until they reached the shelter of a small stand of young pines. They stopped there for Sam and Dean to get their shirts on for a bit of warmth, and shove their shoes hurriedly onto their feet. Sam had to help Dean with the shirt buttons and shoelaces; Dean's hands still weren't working right, but Sam's hands seemed to be perfectly fine.

Dean quickly filled Sam in on the situation, as Sam finished tying the shoelaces.

"Gotta leave. Got it. Are we still in Death Canyon?" said Sam, glancing around the dim meadow.

"Of course! It's our favorite canyon!" said Dean. "But I don't know which way to go." They all got back on their feet — Buddy still reeling a bit woozily between the two brothers, his head sagging, still holding on to both of them for support — and Dean looked around, disoriented. How had they approached the house originally? Where was its front door? What side of it were they on? Most important, which way was the trail? Dean could see only the pale grasses at their feet; everything more than about ten feet away seemed to be pitch black. He could barely even make out the dark hulk of the house anymore. There was nothing visible but the stars and moon.

"We gotta go east," said Sam. "If we're in Death Canyon, the canyon exits to the east."

"But where's east?"

"Dude. Moon rises in the east." said Sam, nodding toward a perfect half-moon that was just hovering above the trees.

"What if it's setting and not rising?"

"A waning quarter-moon..." said a slurred voice from between them, "... always rises at midnight." Buddy had raised his head.

"That's a half a moon," objected Dean. "And, how do you know it's waning?"

"We are seeing one-quarter of the entire, three-dimensional, moon. So it is called a quarter-moon. And, I pay attention," said Buddy. He seemed to be waking up. "It was full last week, so it's waning now."

"Well, ok then, Galileo, jeez, showoff," said Dean. They began to walk across the meadow toward the moon. Buddy seemed a little more stable now.

"Also," added Sam, "The end of the Big Dipper points north, so... let's see, north must be on our left. The North Star must be behind that mountain."

"Correct," said Buddy.

"You are both such _unbelievable_ _nerds_," said Dean.

"I... have noticed," said Buddy, stumbling slightly, "... that, according to you, Dean, anybody who knows any information, about anything at all, is a 'nerd'. Correct?"

Sam laughed.

"So I should take it as a compliment, right?" said Buddy.

Dean muttered "_Complete_ nerds. _One hundred percent_," under his breath. Sam and Buddy both laughed this time.

It slowly sank in that they'd actually escaped. They'd escaped the demons, they'd escaped Calcariel, and they'd even escaped Mr. Magma.

A thought struck Dean, and he asked Buddy, "Why did Mr. Magma let us go? He was out of the circle — he could have grabbed all of us."

"He liked your little candies," said Buddy.

"What?" said Dean.

"Mr. Magma liked the little round candies," said Buddy. "The, uh, 'chocolate guys', you called them?"

It took Dean a moment to process this. "He liked the M&M's?"

"He said the coat wasn't bad, but he preferred the little round candies. "

Sam said, "Wait. I missed that part. Are you telling me that lava monsters like M&M's?"

The ground shook, and shook again, twice in close succession.

"Sam," said Buddy, elbowing Sam sharply and shaking his head ferociously, "You were not fortunate enough to meet him. He is an elemental. _Not a monster_. Oh. By the way. Elementals have extremely good hearing in the region directly above their bodies."

"Yeah, Sam, you uh, you loser, you really missed out," said Dean hastily. "I thought Mr. Magma was very, uh, impressive! Really quite something! And handsome, really." Buddy was nodding at him encouragingly, so Dean went on, "He was super cool!" (Buddy shook his head rapidly.) "That was a metaphor. What I meant was, I really meant, he was super hot!" (Buddy nodded.) "Hot in a ... awesome elemental lava kind of way. Not in a... not the other kind of hot...It's not like I wanted to... " (Buddy was making fierce throat-cutting motions now.) "Anyway it was so amazing to get to meet him! I'm so glad he liked the M&M's!"

"Oh — I — I — my mistake," stammered Sam, after some more sharp elbowing from Buddy. "You know, I really am so disappointed I didn't get to meet him."

"Sam, perhaps you could put some candies in the hot springs that are near here," suggested Buddy.

The ground gave a tiny quiver.

"I'd be _thrilled_ to put some M&M's in the hot springs," said Sam. "It'd be an_ honor_."

They walked on a while in silence.

"I think we're okay now," whispered Buddy eventually

They'd almost crossed the whole meadow now. The moon had risen a bit further, and Dean could see his companions' faces now in the moonlight. He looked across at his brother, who was _alive_, goddamit, _alive_; and at Buddy, between them. Buddy, who had somehow, miraculously, heard Dean's plea for help and had come to save them.

Buddy still had a hand on both their arms, and Dean could no longer tell if they were supporting him, or if he was supporting them.

_It's supposed to be like this, _Dean realized. _There's supposed to be three of us. Not just two._

* * *

They reached the forest, but they could not find the trail. It was just too dark. "We'll have to proceed off-trail," said Buddy. "He's been very patient, but we're almost out of time." Buddy seemed to be back to normal now, and he insisted on taking the lead, leading them single-file into the trees, eastward, trying to hurry them along. But the woods turned out to be completely stuffed full of invisible dark obstacles. Stray branches kept whipping them in the face, and they were having to push past what seemed like an extreme amount of underbrush and a truly absurd number of fallen trees. There was a fallen tree at least every five steps, and every single one had to be clambered over laboriously, side branches stabbing at them unexpectedly and tripping them up.

Buddy made them hold hands — Buddy, then Dean, then Sam — and he started calling a series of instructions from ahead: "Branch here — I'm holding it for you Dean — okay, a log, lift your feet. Watch out here, don't trip. Here's another log — hm, I believe this may be stinging nettle, don't touch anything on your left — Oh, here's a stream, this is problematic. We'll have to back up."

"It never looks like this on TV." Dean muttered as they blundered their way over a tiny brook, detoured around a pit of strangely sticky mud and immediately ran into three fallen trees in a row."It wasn't like this at all in Lord of the Rings."

Buddy replied, "I believe they use large electric lights to make those shows — look out, boulder here — oops, sorry, I should have held that branch back — And they film them in manicured parks, I suppose. My fault, sorry, I held that one back too long, didn't mean it to hit you in the face — log here, you'll have to climb over this one — there's a sharp snag on top — Actual woods in an actual night can be quite difficult to navigate. Hole. Oh, I'm quite sorry, Dean, I didn't warn you in time."

"Hey, you know what I just realized. We're not out of the woods yet." said Dean. This sent both him and Sam into nearly hysterical giggles.

Buddy sighed.

Sam added, "Yeah, we're really going ... off the beaten path!" More hysterical giggles.

Buddy sighed again.

"Not really much of a comedian, are you?" said Dean.

Buddy said, "Perhaps it'd be funnier if I didn't know what was coming."

"What's coming?" said Dean. The moon was a little bit higher now and he could just see Buddy turn his head to look back at him. All Buddy said was "Make sure you keep holding Sam's hand."

A few minutes later, Sam began to falter. Dean felt him wobbling, and then Sam dropped Dean's hand.

"Sammy? What's up?" said Dean.

"Tired," said Sam. His strange burst of energy seemed to be wearing off. First he slowed, then he was stumbling, then barely able to stay vertical. At the next fallen tree, he refused to climb over it and simply sat down, mumbling, "Gimme a sec... just gotta take a break..."

"What's wrong with him?" Dean hissed to Buddy, pulling him a bit away from Sam to talk.

"He's just back to normal," said Buddy. "He's hurt, Dean. Quite badly. He's lost a lot of blood and many of his wounds were quite deep and are not fully healed."

"That spell thing you did fixed him up for a bit, right?"

"Yes. Temporarily. It only lasts an hour."

"Can you do it again?"

"Not often. Not yet, I think. There's a cost. We have to try to get him a bit further first."

They managed to coax Sam to his feet and get him over the tree, but Buddy and Dean had to get on either side of him, one of Sam's arms over each of their shoulders. This made clambering over the trees even more difficult. Then they hit an absolutely huge patch of fallen trees that were zigzagged everywhere, as if a great giant had emptied out a box of immense toothpicks in a heap. Branches were sticking up everywhere in front of them in the moonlight.

"Come on," Buddy said, sounding grimly determined. "We have to get through this." There followed a near-infinity of clambering over difficult logs that seemed to have chosen to fall in those particular spots just to be annoying. Dean was finding it very exhausting, and he had to let go of Sam's arm. Buddy ended up dragging Sam along by himself, Dean trailing further and further behind. "Dean!" Bud kept calling. "Come on! You have to keep up. _Please_."

Dean realized his legs were moving extremely slowly.

"You didn't do ... a spell ... on me," said Dean. "What's... happening?"

Buddy said, while coaxing Sam over another tree, "You've been whipped and beaten and hung by your arms for nearly two days, you're getting cold, you probably have also lost more blood than you realized, all your limbs are probably seizing up, and your adrenaline is wearing off." He added helpfully, "I thought you'd have collapsed by now, actually."

Dean said "Oh," fell a bit further behind, and Buddy said, "Oh. Um. But ... you're doing ... surprisingly well! You might ... it is possible you might not collapse! Drat. Dean, please, just try to keep up."

But Buddy's first, more pessimistic, statement had been the correct one: Dean was in quite bad shape. The night air was getting frigid, and Dean was getting _very_ cold. His feet seemed to be getting heavier and heavier with every passing minute. Finally he realized he had ground to a total halt, standing still, drooping. Buddy was calling "Dean! Dean!" from ahead of him, while also trying to wrestle a semiconscious Sam over another obstacle.

Dean found that if he pushed himself to an absolutely maximal effort, he could _only just_ haul one foot up enough to take one step over one tree branch. Then he had to pause and regroup before taking the next step.

Buddy began shuttling Sam and Dean forward in stages, coaxing each one of them ahead to a resting spot and then coming back for the other one.

They finally got through that particular patch of fallen trees, but Dean knew now that they were still in real trouble. They'd escaped from Calcariel and Mr. Magma, yes ... but now they were lost, at night, in near-freezing temperatures, off-trail, at high elevation, in the formidable tangled wilderness of the Tetons. "We're really not out of the woods yet at all. Are we," he said to Buddy, his voice starting to slur. This time it wasn't funny.

And then Sam collapsed completely.

Buddy knelt by Sam's side and pressed an ear to his chest. He shook Sam, and called his name. The moon was high now, shining through the trees. Buddy turned to Dean and looked at him for a moment. He said "At least you're still on your feet. But Sam ... I've _got_ to get Sam moving again." He stood, reached out to Dean and opened the leather jacket, and pulled out another feather from the inside pocket.

He performed the same strange ritual that he had before, Dean sitting on a nearby log and watching in a dull haze. Again the golden tendril snaked from Buddy's chest to Sam's; again Buddy collapsed, and again Sam woke, full of energy again, saying "What happened... did I pass out? Why do I keep passing out?"

"Don't worry about it," said Buddy, staggering to his feet. "Sam, Dean's really tired. Can you help him?" And now Sam took charge of Dean, getting one of Dean's arms over his own shoulders. Buddy limped along behind for a bit. But, as before, he revived pretty well in a few minutes.

Finally they were making some decent forward progress again.

"Talk to us, Sam," said Buddy. "Keep us awake."

Sam asked what had happened to Nicky and Calcariel, and Dean gave him more details. The story took a little time to tell, and it did wake Dean up somewhat.

At the end, Sam was silent for a moment. "I was thinking," he said slowly. "While I was hanging there. Could Calcariel have been right?"

"What?" said Dean.

"What if Calcariel was right," said Sam. They'd actually reached a stretch of smooth ground for once, a little glade of shadowy fall wildflowers, and were able to just walk normally for a little while. Sam said, "He was trying to end suffering on Earth. I mean, not that I wanted to be sacrificed, but... what if everybody really could just ... go to Heaven right now? Be with who they love, right now, forever. No suffering anymore." He added, "Is that what the Apocalypse was supposed to be? Was it supposed to end suffering, and I screwed it up and now everybody's still suffering?"

Dean said, "You know, this is such a _perfect_ time to talk about all this. Let's all sit down and have a little discussion."

"It's a fair question, Sam," Buddy spoke up from ahead of them. "But the answer is no. Calcariel was not right. There is certainly suffering here, yes. But it is worth it. Because there is also real joy here. There is beauty. There is love."

"But in Heaven we could all be with the people we love, forever," said Sam.

Buddy stopped entirely, and turned around to look at Sam, shaking his head. "Sam. I believe now that Heaven is just... I think the best way to put it is, Heaven is a puppet show. Almost all souls there are actually trapped. Alone in their own private little bubble worlds. They're not really with the people they love - just with simulacra of them. Hallucinations of them. Puppets." He glanced at Dean. "Here on earth, you can _really_ be with the people you care for. It's really them. It's _real_."

"But," said Sam. "All the suffering...There doesn't seem to be that much good stuff. And a lot of bad stuff."

Buddy looked at him for a long moment.

"Suppose..." Buddy said at last, "Sam, suppose someone was alone, on Earth, for a long time, and had a lot of ... difficulty, but finally got just a little time with ... well, with the people he really wanted to be with." He paused, looking at them both. "It would still be worth it, Sam. Even it were just for... a few days. And even if he never saw them again after that." He was silent a moment. "It would still all be worth it," he said firmly. He turned around and said "Log here. Step up." And on they went.

Dean lost track of what was going on. Logs, darkness, cold, branches, climbing, walking. First Sam was hauling him forward, then Buddy was, then Dean was sitting on a log again watching the golden thread again, then Sam was hauling him again.

Eventually Dean noticed that he was not moving anymore. He and Sam were lying huddled next to each other, on a pile of spruce needles next to a large dark boulder, both of them shivering. Buddy seemed to be crawling around under the side of the dark boulder, swearing under his breath.

"Found it," Buddy said after a while. He stood up. There was the sound of a key going into a lock. The boulder suddenly lit up; it was the Impala.

Buddy coaxed them inside, dragging Sam into the back seat (Sam seemed to be unconscious again) and then shoving a very uncoordinated Dean into the shotgun seat. Buddy clambered into the driver's seat, started the car and steered it out onto the little unpaved road.

Dean lay crumpled against the side of the passenger door, shivering. He wanted to turn and check on Sam, but it seemed impossible to move. It seemed impossible even to turn his head. Fortunately he was already facing Buddy; so he watched Buddy driving. Buddy was intent on the road, both hands on the wheel.

"Don't worry," he said to Dean. "I do know how to drive now."

He swerved sharply around a pothole, the car fishtailed alarmingly, and they hit the pothole hard anyway. Buddy added, "Though I could use some more practice. Dean, aren't there supposed to be lights on the front of this thing? "

"Knob," said Dean faintly.

"What?"

"Knob... Pull it."

Buddy began pulling every random knob he could find, and at last managed to get the headlights on.

The car began shaking wildly.

"What the hell are you doing?" said Dean, suddenly wide awake. "What'd you do! Stop the car!"

"The car is already stopped, Dean," said Buddy, looking over at him. "It's Mr. Magma."

The Impala was shaking hard, side to side, jouncing on its springs. There was a tremendous, thundering sound from far behind them. Buddy cranked down one window and they heard a thunderous _boom _echoing from the mountains. The echoes took a long time to fade.

"Thank you for the extra time," Buddy whispered out the window. He rolled up the window again, put the car back in gear and drove on.

"What was that?" Dean said, wide awake now.

"Earthquake, perhaps, or landslide? I don't know. We'll find out later. We got clear just in time, I think." Buddy glanced over at Dean. "Good job getting through the trees, Dean. I know you're very tired."

"What did you do to Sam?"

Buddy focused on the road for a moment, and finally said, "A spell. I gave him some of my life essence. To keep him alive. And to wake him back up."

"Sounds like a handy spell," said Dean. "Maybe I oughta learn it?"

Buddy said, "I would not recommend this particular spell, actually. The cost can be... problematic. But it does have its uses sometimes. It was all I could do with what I had available. "

"What... is it dangerous for Sam?"

"Not for Sam, no."

It took Dean a moment to realize what he meant.

"What price did you pay?" asked Dean carefully. "What was the deal?"

"No, it's not that, Dean," Buddy said. "Don't worry, this spell isn't a deal. It uses the power of Heaven; it's not a demon-deal. There's no negotiation. The cost is just the way the math works out."

Buddy was being evasive, and Dean was determined to pin him down. "How does the math work out?" asked Dean.

Buddy had reached the end of the unpaved road, and managed to steer the Impala successfully onto the main paved road.

"Buddy. What's the math?" said Dean.

Buddy sighed, and said, "Sam gets an hour, I lose a decade."

Dean blinked.

"As I said. The cost is problematic," said Buddy calmly. "It's just a very inefficient transfer. But sometimes it is useful."

"How many hours did you give him?" said Dean. He couldn't quite remember.

A pause.

"Three."

Dean was dumbfounded. Three decades? Buddy had given up three decades of his life? How long would he normally have lived... seventy, perhaps? How old was he now? Dean studied his face. Mid-thirties, maybe?

"Buddy," whispered Dean.

Buddy glanced over at Dean. "I consider it a bargain," he said. He added after a moment later, glancing in the rearview mirror again, "Well, assuming Sam actually does survive. But we're only a short distance from the hospital. Chances are good, I think."

Dean watched him several minutes longer. The Impala was blasting out heat now, Dean was warming up, the adrenaline from the earthquake seemed to have got him wide awake again, and despite his exhaustion he actually started to feel like he could almost think. He could _almost _think clearly.

He watched Buddy driving. Watched his profile in the moonlight; the bloody streaks on his face; the dark bruises. Watched him checking Sam periodically in the rearview mirror, and glancing over now and then at Dean. Watched as he carefully negotiated the turn past the darkened teepee restaurant, onto the main road to Jackson.

"You powered the spell with those feathers," began Dean. "The feathers... "

Buddy glanced over at him. He returned his eyes to the road, and said, "Dean. There is a wall in your mind. You must stop scratching at the wall. You know, you two should _really_ both know that by now." He shook his head. "I should have known never to underestimate your persistence. And your stubbornness. Both of you."

"The feathers," Dean persisted. "They were... angel feathers. Weren't they. Same with the orb feathers. They're all angel feathers."

"Dean. Stop."

Dean couldn't stop. "You overheard the angels. You knew Ziphius was waking. You can talk to elementals. You were in my dreams. And you have all these black angel feathers."

"Dean, I said _stop_. I'm serious."

_Nicky, saying, "Angel-blades up their friggin' sleeves all the time... got all those weapons'a Heaven..._

"You always carry an angel-blade up your sleeve. You had weapons of Heaven."

Buddy was looking very worried now, glancing at Dean repeatedly. "Dean. Why won't you do as I say?_"_

"Because you need to tell me the truth. You know you do. Please tell me the truth, Bud," Dean said. He knew he was begging, and didn't care. "Please tell me the truth. You're an angel, aren't you?"

"I told you I'm not an angel. That's the truth."

Dean concentrated, gritting his teeth, his head pounding. His thoughts were skating around in his head, fish dashing around... birds taking flight.

_Bird. Wing. Feather._

_Black wings, rising unevenly. Black feathers._

_A little statuette, crashing to the ground. The wings shattering._

_Don't you want your wings?_

_Don't you want your wings?_

"You _were_ an angel," said Dean. "You're human now, but you _were _an angel." This was it, this was the solution at last, and he felt like Einstein discovering the theory of relativity, Newton watching the apple fall, Archimedes shouting "EUREKA!" Dean _knew_ he had it right, he _knew_ he was right! He felt it, in his mind, one huge puzzle piece finally clicking into place, at last, finally, finally! His head was pounding, his vision blurred, his hands shaking, shivers running up and down his legs.

Buddy had pulled the car over. He reached over and grabbed Dean by the shoulder, shaking him, looking right at him, saying intensely, "You're pushing _way_ too far. You're going to hurt yourself, Dean. I'm serious. You _must _stop thinking about this."

Buddy had hold of him by the shoulder. Gripping him tightly. Dean stared into his eyes.

_I'm the one who gripped you tight_

_Nicky, saying, "just cause you had a stupid angel pulling you outta Hell..."_

"You pulled me out of Hell," Dean said.

Buddy stared at him. He whispered, "Please stop."

But Dean couldn't stop. Like a skier on a ski jump, momentum had taken him over, and nothing could stop him now. He said, "You pulled _Sam _out of Hell too."

Buddy was silent, looking at him.

_Those eyes._

"You're my angel," Dean said, elated, triumphant, absolutely certain. The pain in his head was crushing; he heard great bells ringing in the back of his mind; he plowed on. "That's who you are. You're my angel. _You're my angel! _Aren't you? Aren't you?"

Buddy nodded. His eyes were shining.

Dean's head split apart.

* * *

_A/N -_ _  
_

_This particular chapter is now officially set on September FIFTEENTH, 2014, because it turns out a waning quarter-moon will rise at midnight in Wyoming on September 15, 2014. As Dean would say, I am such an unbelievable friggin' nerd._

_I said earlier I'd finish this in a week. I was so stupidly wrong. Couple more weeks still. Have to go work on a whale paper now; promised my co-authors I'd get it done next week! - hope to get the next Forgotten chapter up Sun or Mon but I might miss that deadline. The whales are calling. (Priorities!)_

_The stumbling-through-the-Tetons-at-night part is based on experience, and it is even more difficult than described. (I left out the quicksand, the ravines, and the scree slopes) Always bugs me when show writers have them trotting through some tidy Vancouver park and try to tell us that's wilderness. (*cough* Purgatory *cough*)_

_If you enjoyed or have comments, please review! _


	17. Over The Pass

Dean's next two days were staccato flickers of images separated by long stretches of blackness.

He was lying on his back in the parking lot, Buddy crouching over him, an angel-blade at Dean's heart.

He was standing in a barn. He'd thought he was ready, but he was terrified. The doors were bursting open, a huge wooden bar snapping like a toothpick, and then Buddy was walking right toward him. Bright lights exploding overhead. Sparks showering down all around him.

Dean was stabbing Buddy in the heart. Buddy just smiled, and pulled out the knife.

Black wings, rising.

It was just fragmentary images, just the same few images repeating over and over. Buddy in the parking lot— Buddy in the barn — Dean stabbing him in the heart — black wings. And in between, darkness.

Dean was watching Buddy walking toward him once again, the bright lights bursting overhead, sparks showering down, when it occurred to him that there actually _were_ bright lights overhead. He was lying on his back blinking up at bright lights. And the showering sparks resolved into a little light that was flicking from side to side; somebody was shining a small light in his eyes. Somebody was asking him to say his name, and move his feet and hands, and look from side to side.

He said his name obediently, he moved his feet and hands, he looked from side to side. He'd been through this drill before. _Another hospital, oh boy._ A brunette nurse was leaning over him, "Dean, can you hear me? Dean?"

"Yeah," whispered Dean.

"You're in the Jackson hospital. You had a hiking accident - do you remember?"

_Hiking accident. Okay, I can work with that._

"Yeah, I remember."

He did, in fact, remember. Calcariel. Mr. Magma. The grueling long hike in the woods. And Sam, and Buddy.

"You had a seizure afterwards, and we've had to keep you sedated. You'll be fine now; just relax. My name is Sarah, and I'm taking care of you. Oh, and, your brother's here."

_Sam?_ he thought, relieved, but then the nurse added, confusingly, "Your older brother."

Dean wanted to clarify that Sam was his _younger _brother, but he found that his eyes had slid closed, and it seemed easiest to leave them that way. Distantly he heard the nurse saying, "He'll be a little out of it for a while. And Sam's stable now. Can't I convince you to go home and get some sleep?"

A familiar low voice replied, "I'm fine, thanks. I'll stay."

Dean drifted off.

Some time later, he blinked his eyes open to find he was lying in a bed. He felt much more awake this time, and he looked around, and saw that somebody was standing on the far side of the room. Dean could only see his back, but Dean knew who it was. Just from the angle of the head, the way he was holding himself, and the way he was gazing out the window.

"Bud?" Dean whispered.

Buddy turned his head.

"Hello, Dean," Buddy said. He walked over to the bed. Dean watched him approach, vividly reminded of that strange scene in the barn; but Buddy looked much more fragile here. For one thing his face was even more of a mess than it had been before, with three new lash-marks cutting across all the bruises and scrapes. He had a line of stitches down one cheek and some little butterfly-bandages on his nose and forehead. His forearm was bandaged too, from where he'd grabbed the whip.

"I'm awake? I'm not dreaming?" said Dean, just to be sure.

The corner of Buddy's mouth twitched. "Yes, you're awake."

"How's Sam?"

"Sam's fine," said Buddy reassuringly. Then he added, "Well, actually, he's in critical condition and he's in a coma. He went into hemorrhagic shock."

"That's not... fine," said Dean.

"My apologies. You're correct, he's not fine at the moment," said Buddy, unperturbed. "But he's _going _to be fine. They managed to give him a transfusion in time, and I'm certain he'll wake from the coma. I can feel him in there and he's just sleeping."

"Feel him in there?"

Buddy reached out and touched two fingers to Dean's forehead. "Like this. I can feel him in there, inside his mind. He's still there. Just sleeping. Healing." He dropped his hand.

Dean had begun to remember the conversation in the car. He said slowly, "You really are... an angel?"

Buddy shook his head. "Was," he corrected Dean. He glanced down at the floor. "I _was _an angel. Not any more."

"But you still can do... you still have... powers? Abilities? Angel stuff?"

Buddy hesitated. "Not really," he said slowly. "Very little. Just a couple of fragments. My..." He sighed. "When I lost my grace, this time, it was ripped out rather roughly." (_This time? _thought Dean.) "When that happens, sometimes tiny pieces remain. And sometimes there can be little scraps of abilities." He went silent, very still, looking at the floor, and Dean realized belatedly that this might be a painful subject.

"Just little things," Buddy said, still gazing at the floor. "Communication, mostly. Angel radio...Sometimes dreamwalking. And this, sometimes." He touched Dean's forehead again, gently. "Sometimes I can hear a little bit what is happening inside. It's erratic. I can't heal at all — which, by the way, has been _extremely _frustrating — but sometimes I get little glimpses." He looked at Dean, his mouth twisted ruefully. "That's about it. Nothing very useful."

"The dreams were useful," pointed out Dean. "Like, pretty critical actually."

Buddy smiled. "That was fortunate. It was a unique situation, though. You were calling very loudly, and we, well, we, uh. We've met before, and that helps."

Dean said, "It really was you who pulled me out of Hell?"

Buddy hesitated, and then nodded. "Yes."

"Sam too?"

Buddy looked a little abashed. "I didn't do as good a job that time. But, yes."

Dean thought some more, and said, slowly, "We've met... other times. Since then. Haven't we. Not just five years ago when I got out of Hell... but... more recently?"

Buddy said slowly, watching Dean, "A few times, yes," he said. "A few times since."

Buddy's expression had gone very wary, and Dean felt tentative, but he pressed on, saying, "How often? Bud, my memory's pretty fucked up. Sam's too. We don't really remember you at all. How often have we met?"

"Oh... I don't recall... a couple of times... two or three times since, perhaps... just now and then... " said Buddy, looking at the floor. "I don't recall exactly. So, anyway, it appears Mr. Magma has become quiescent again."

_That was a pretty damn sudden change of subject_, thought Dean, but he decided to let it slide. He could circle back to it later.

And, well, saving North America from total destruction should _possibly _be the conversational priority for the moment.

Dean asked, "Was that an earthquake or what, at the end?"

"There were several landslides in the canyon. The north end of the meadow was obliterated. The house is gone. There have been no earthquakes since. Today is the third day and so far nothing has happened. Mr. Magma never did get a human soul this time, so I believe he is quiescent. But still not totally asleep, I think, so it would be wise if Sam brings the little candies, as he promised."

"We'll do that," promised Dean. "And what about Ziphius? He must've died, right?"

Buddy frowned. "Actually I'm not sure. He may have been able to get out. I heard him calling right at the end, and he was out of the house and was moving. But I'm not sure. That's actually one reason I've been watching over you and Sam — just in case Ziphius might attempt to harm you. I doubt he'll come after you, though; I don't think he even knew who you and Sam were exactly, and he's one of the sort who perpetually underestimate humans. Still, you should be on your guard."

"What about you?" A thought struck Dean. "Bud — hey — how on earth did you heal up, anyway, if you can't do the magic healing thing? How did you get to us?"

Buddy looked away. "There was one angel who was willing to help me. Well... after a good deal of arguing, at least. He is weak, though — he could barely even fly here —and he couldn't heal me all the way. But he did what he could. Then I hitchhiked to the restaurant and, well, then I stole a bicycle to ride to the trailhead, and then I walked from there." He frowned. "It is more difficult than I realized to ride a bicycle. I thought it would be easy, but it really wasn't at all."

The image that came to mind brought Dean perilously close to laughing, but he managed to keep a straight face.

"The bicycle must have been destroyed in the landslides," said Buddy. He sounded a little sad about this. "It seems a pity. I got rather fond of it. Even though I only knew it for an hour."

"You did save North America though," pointed out Dean. "So there's that."

"Yes... I suppose that is worth the loss of a bicycle?"

"I think those just about balance out," said Dean. Then he realized Buddy had skipped over something. "Buddy, who was the angel that healed you?"

Buddy looked a little nervous. "It was an angel by the name of..." He hesitated, looking at Dean. "...Gadreel."

Dean's mouth actually fell open. "_Gadreel? He's _the one that healed you? That... that _son of a bitch? _That _murderer?_"

Buddy sighed.

"I can't _believe _you work with _Gadreel_," said Dean. "That guy's poison. He betrayed me. He lied to me. And he killed a really good friend of mine, Buddy. A _really _good friend. I can't ever forgive that. _Never_. I can't forgive that. I swore I'd kill him — I'm going to rip his heart out — that _bastard_ —"

The beeps on Dean's heart monitor had accelerated, and the nurse, Sarah, came zooming in. She fussed over Dean for a while until the beeps slowed back down, and pulled Buddy out into the hallway for a very stern talking-to about "not overexciting" Dean. Dean and Buddy had to both promise that Dean would stay calm before she could be persuaded to allow Buddy to stay.

After she left, Buddy was quiet a while. He said eventually. "This was only the second time I've met Gadreel. I don't usually work with him. Dean, I do know that some actions are unforgivable. Betrayal of a friend's trust. Lying. Killing innocents. Those are unforgivable. I know that." He paused, silent for a moment, and then added, "But he was the _only_ angel who would help me. The only one. If not for him I could never have reached you and Sam. In fact it was only when I mentioned that you two were in trouble that he agreed to help at all. That does not excuse what he did to your friend, I know. But, he did help."

Dean thought a long moment.

"Okay," Dean said. "If there was nobody else... Okay. But — dammit. _Gadreel?_ I'm still going to rip his heart out if I can ever catch him, I swear."

"I quite understand. It's disconcerting to have to go to one's enemies for help. And more disconcerting still if they help you," said Buddy.

"He killed my friend," said Dean. "I _hate _losing friends, Bud. I really, _really _hate it."

Buddy looked at Dean for a long moment, and then did rather an odd action: he reached up and patted Dean on the head a couple times, exactly as if Dean were a puppy. Dean must have looked confused, for Buddy said, withdrawing his hand uncertainly, "Was that... incorrect? The action is slightly wrong? Or the context is wrong?"

Dean frowned, puzzled. "Uh... what?"

"You touched me on the head earlier. It seemed a gesture of, um, comfort and goodwill, perhaps — was I mistaken? I was attempting to return the gesture."

"Oh..." said Dean. What Dean had done earlier to Buddy hadn't exactly been a pat, not really, more a stroke-of-the-hair, sort of, and he'd thought Buddy was dying, and it had been also a gesture of _affection_, actually, now that he thought about it, but how was Dean going to explain all that? _Actually, Bud, that was an affectionate stroke-of-the-hair-to-a-dying-friend sort of thing, and you're supposed to never talk about it._

"Uh, okay," said Dean.

Buddy sighed. He sat down in the chair by Dean's bed, turning his head to gaze out the room out the window, his hands in his lap. "There are so many rules, Dean," Buddy said. "It takes so long to figure them out. Hundreds and hundreds of unwritten rules. I'll never get it right. There are a lot of subtleties that are really not apparent at all." He spread his fingers and looked down at his hands, turning both hands over and looking at them, palms up and then palms down, as if reminding himself what sort of body he was inhabiting. Or, perhaps, trying to discern the ineffable difference between a pat-on-a-puppy's-head and a stroke-of-the-hair-of-a-dying-friend.

He folded his hands and set them neatly in his lap. Looking out the window, he said, "You know, at first I wasn't really paying any attention to the rules. All these odd little rules. It just seemed unimportant. I didn't even notice. Later, I got to a point where at least I recognized when I was breaking a rule, but it still didn't bother me." He was still gazing out the window. "But then I got to a further point where it began to bother me. Recently..." He paused. "Recently it was bothering me very much."

Then he shrugged, and turned back to Dean, saying, "But now I suppose I have reached an even further point where I am beginning to not mind much anymore. I suppose I've come full circle. I've realized I won't ever fit in anyway, and to be honest a lot of the rules seem exceptionally stupid."

Dean was running a little behind. "Rules?" he said.

"Rules of human behavior," explained Buddy. He gave Dean a little smile. "Never mind. I'm talking too much again. You should be resting anyway. I promised Sarah, your nurse, that I wouldn't talk much with you. It's just... I've missed talking with... " He stopped abruptly, and for a moment he seemed to be holding his breath.

"It's nice sometimes to have someone to talk with," he said at last.

"More than just a cat?" suggested Dean.

Buddy smiled. "More than just a cat, I suppose. Though, the cat is very nice. She is very kind, actually. I do enjoy talking with you, but, the cat purrs, and curls up in my lap."

"I'm not gonna do that," announced Dean.

"No, you needn't purr, Dean," said Buddy seriously. "I wasn't requesting that you curl up in my lap. Do not worry."

"Good, because — uh —"

"You wouldn't fit," said Buddy calmly. "I don't think you'd purr very well, actually."

"Right," said Dean.

"I'm sure you're good at other things," said Buddy.

"Yeah, um," said Dean. "So, hey, what day is it again?"

"It's September eighteenth," said Buddy. "The sun set a few hours ago. You were taken by Calcariel on the fourteenth, and the first demon died near sunset on the fifteenth, so it's been just over three days since then. We didn't actually get to the hospital till near dawn on the sixteenth, though. That walk through the woods took quite a few hours — Mr. Magma was really extraordinarily patient. And then the car drive took a bit of time. And then... well, you... you passed out during the drive."

That car drive.

Right. Time to dive in.

Dean took a breath. "Bud, why the hell didn't you tell us that we'd met you before?"

Buddy's eyes slid away. He took a slow breath, and then looked up at Dean's heart monitor. He watched that for a moment, and then his eyes dropped to Dean's chest, watching Dean's breathing.

Dean realized that Buddy was trying to assess if Dean were stable enough for a real discussion. Dean tried to sit up and look alert.

Buddy stood, and took a tiny step closer to the edge of the bed, setting both hands on Dean's bedrail. He finally said, "Dean, do you understand what's happened to you? Not this week, I mean. Earlier."

_Here we go. This is it. _Dean could actually hear his heart speed up - the beeping accelerated on the monitor — and Buddy glanced up at it, a slight frown on his face.

"Some kind of memory glitch thing," said Dean. "Sam and me." He made himself take a couple of deep breaths, and tried to relax, willing the damn beeping to slow down. "We've both got a ton of gaps in our memories. We just noticed it recently. Then this week, I don't know, it seems like I'm noticing more things. It seems like our memories were erased or something. Like I said, we didn't remember you at all. And there's all kinds of other stuff we don't remember."

Buddy nodded. Dean thought, _He knows something._

Dean asked, "Do you know how? Or why? Did... " Dean hesitated, and blurted out, "Did you do it?"

"No," said Buddy immediately, shaking his head.

"Do you know who did?"

A pause.

"Yes," said Buddy.

"Who?"

Buddy wouldn't meet his eyes. Instead Buddy looked at the heart monitor again, and looked down at the blanket on the bed. He took his hands off the handrail and wrapped both arms around himself, cradling his bandaged arm with his other hand.

"Buddy, you have to tell me," said Dean.

"This sort of memory wipe can be done one of two ways," said Buddy, still looking at the blanket. "By an angel, or by the subject. If done by the subject, it can only be done voluntarily." Buddy took a slow breath and looked at Dean. "Dean, an angel did not do this. You did it to yourself, Dean. And Sam did it to himself."

Dean actually heard his heart skip a beat, on the heart monitor.

"What? W-what?" Dean stuttered. "No, wait... what?"

"You cast the spell on yourself."

"That _can't_ be right," Dean protested, trying to sit up. Buddy reached out his bandaged arm to Dean's chest and gently pushed him back down.

"Dean, we shouldn't even be talking about this," he said. "You really need to rest."

Dean ignored him. "Why... why would we... why would we do that? That can't be right. Bud, it's _five years_, it covers almost everything we've done back _five years_, not just the couple times we met you, it's all kinds of other stuff too, it's years and years of stuff, all kinds of other things. It's been driving us _crazy_. Why on earth would we ever have done that?"

Buddy exhaled in a sort of grim sigh, and pressed his lips together. "I don't know why you did it," Buddy said, looking at Dean. "But I know this: You must have had a good reason. You chose to do this, Dean. You must have wanted to. The spell can only be done voluntarily."

His eyes seemed very dark.

Dean whispered, "How do we undo it?"

Buddy frowned. "You asked me why I didn't tell you that we'd met before. There are two reasons. The first is... well, I thought it was clear that you didn't want... what you'd forgotten. Otherwise you wouldn't have erased the memories, correct?" Dean opened his mouth to object, and started to sit up again; but once again Buddy reached out with his bandaged arm and pushed Dean back down. Buddy went on, without removing his hand, "The other reason is that it would harm you to remember. These spells can be dangerous to tamper with. I've been quite worried that if you recover memories, it could cause neurological problems. Which is exactly what happened." He pulled his hand back slowly. "Dean, after we last spoke, in the car, you went into status epilepticus for half a day. They had to put you into an induced coma."

"Stat... what?"

"You went into a continuous seizure," said Buddy. "It is a life-threatening condition."

Dean blinked.

Buddy said, "It was quite serious. It was fortunate we were only a few minutes from the hospital." He added, softly, "I was very worried."

Buddy paused, watching Dean, letting that sink in.

Buddy then said, "And it will likely happen again if you persist further in trying to recover your memories. So I believe it is better if you continue as you are."

"I don't care," Dean insisted. "I want the wall down. I want my memories back. Sam does too."

"Dean, have you not been listening? It isn't safe."

"I don't care if it's not safe. I want it all back. I want back... what I forgot! I want what I forgot. I want it back. The stuff I forgot, _I want it back_."

"Have you considered the possibility," said Buddy steadily, "that what you forgot might not have been very important? Or very useful? It might have just been... something problematic. Something annoying. Something you wanted to get rid of."

Dean looked at him.

"It was something you wanted to forget, Dean," said Buddy evenly, looking him right in the eyes. "Are you truly willing to risk putting yourself into another coma, just to recover something that you clearly didn't want to keep in the first place?"

Dean was getting frustrated. Buddy wasn't understanding at all; Dean _needed _those memories back. He _needed _what he'd lost. He knew it. And Sam did too. They both needed... whatever they'd lost.

Buddy said gently, "You must just let it go, Dean."

But Dean was thinking, _No way am I going to get this drop. I'll figure out something. If Buddy won't help me, I'll find someone who will._

Buddy said, "Sarah is right. You really need to rest. I've tired you out. I should be going." He stood from the chair, looked at Dean quietly for a moment, and said "Goodbye, Dean."

He started to walk around the bed toward the door. But something about that formal "Goodbye, Dean," really didn't sound good at all, and Dean suddenly felt frantic to keep him from leaving. "Wait, wait," said Dean. Buddy stopped at the foot of the bed and looked at him.

Dean said plaintively, feeling a little silly, "Can you stay a little longer? I don't know, maybe... could you watch over me while I sleep, or something?" That sounded ridiculous, but Dean couldn't help asking. "Just a little longer? Please?"

Buddy looked at him a while, and nodded slowly. He walked slowly back around the bed and sat down again.

Buddy didn't say anything further; he just sat quietly, his hands in his lap again. It could have been an awkward silence, but it wasn't.

It was just... soothing.

Reassuring.

Peaceful.

Safe.

Dean closed his eyes, thinking of how his mother had once told him, _Angels are watching over you._

Dean was soon in a doze, falling into the the dream again, that endlessly frustrating dream of the house. He walked through the darkened rooms, looking around at all the shrouded furniture, and the dim shapes of all the dusty objects; he looked up at the mysterious painting in the silver tarnished frame; he walked up to the mantel, and looked at the little statuette. He touched the angel lightly and watched it fall.

"I'm sorry," mumbled Dean to the broken angel.

"It's okay," said a low voice, from outside the dream entirely.

"It's my fault," said Dean, still in the dream.

"Dean, it's okay."

"But I broke it, I broke the angel. I should have stayed with it, after. I shouldn't have left it alone. I shouldn't have left it all alone. I'm really sorry," said Dean, tears welling to his eyes, his throat closing. "I'm so sorry," he said. "I'm really sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry." He seemed unable to stop apologizing.

"Dean. Go to sleep."

Dean felt himself sliding down, sliding down a long hill, and relaxed, and let it happen. "I should've glued the wings back on," he muttered. "Should've tried at least. I really should've brought some glue." He distantly heard a dry laugh.

He felt a very soft touch on the top of his head. Something was patting his hair. Several times.

Dean slid into a deep sleep.

* * *

When Dean woke the next morning, the chair by his bed was empty. Sarah, the ICU nurse, popped in to check his vital signs and check the dressings on his wrists and ankles. She told him that Sam had awoken a few hours earlier and was doing well.

"Where's my friend? I mean, my, uh, my older brother?" asked Dean. "Is he with Sam?"

Sarah's smile faded, and she began fiddling with the ECG leads on Dean's chest.

She finally looked up at Dean and said, "I'm afraid he's had to leave. He said to tell you that he would have liked to stay, but that it isn't safe for you? Whatever on earth that means? He left you some things, though — wait a tic, I'll go get them."

She trotted away to the nurse's desk and returned in a moment with a bundle in a large plastic bag. She took the items out one by one. "He left these for you, with instructions for me to give them to you when you woke. Car key, first." She pulled out the Impala key and set it on Dean's little meal table. "He said to tell you that this is your extra key, and that your car is parked at the far end of the hospital lot. I think he actually cleaned it up for you. I found him in the janitor's closet looking for cleaning supplies yesterday." She pulled out two little cards, each sealed in an envelope. "There's one of these for you and one for your brother. Get-well cards, I suppose, isn't that nice?"

She handed both cards to Dean and watched Dean's face as he turned the little envelopes over a few times. He didn't open either. He couldn't look up at the nurse.

She cleared her throat and said briskly, "And then, he said to make sure you got this back. You were wearing it when you came in, actually." She pulled out the leather jacket.

The leather jacket. Dean took the jacket, and spread it out on his lap, and finally got a clear look at it in good light. He was unsurprised to discover that it didn't just _look_ like his old jacket — it _was _his old jacket. Same rip on the inside lining that he'd been meaning to fix for ages. Same little pockets on the inside, too; he'd sewn them in there himself, to hold extra id's and ammo.

He ran his hands over the jacket, thinking, _He would never have stolen it. _

_And I would never have given this jacket to someone I'd only met "two or three times."_

_Hell. I'd never even give this jacket to Sam. This was Dad's jacket. _

_I asked if he was "my" angel. Not just any angel. Not just some random angel I'd met a couple of times. I asked if he was MY angel. And he nodded._

Sarah was watching his face.

"I'm sure he would have stayed if he could have," she said.

"I don't even have his friggin' phone number," whispered Dean, staring down at the jacket.

"Maybe he'll get in touch?" Sarah looked at his face a little longer, and sighed. She patted him on the shoulder and said, "Dean, I know family can be tricky. We see that a lot, in the hospital, and the thing we really notice is, who comes to stay with the patient. And most of all, who stays overnight. You should know that your brother Buddy spent the entire last three days here with the two of you. He never went home even once. For three days solid. And he's still a bit of a wreck himself. He was alternating an hour with you and an hour with Sam. I tried to get him to go home on the second day, but he simply wouldn't leave. We actually forced him out at one point and then I just found him sleeping on the floor in the waiting room, so we let him back in."

Dean was still looking at his jacket.

"Would you like to see your younger brother? Sam? He's doing much better. He's been asking for you. I can wheel you over there."

Dean nodded.

* * *

Dean wanted to walk to Sam's room, but found he was surprisingly unsteady on his feet, so he allowed Sarah to order him into a wheelchair. She put the jacket and the cards in his lap without comment, and then wheeled him down a short hallway and into another ICU bay. And there was Sam — looking pale and weak, but awake, and clearly on the mend.

Sarah wheeled Dean right up close to Sam's bed, close enough so that Dean could give Sam a little guy-punch on the shoulder and say, as Sarah discreetly disappeared, "Hey Sammy. You look good."

Sam said, "Hey Dean. You look like shit."

"Actually... you too. But hell, man, so glad you're awake. Sorry I didn't come to see you earlier but I guess I was having seizures or something."

Sam gave him a weak smile. "What kind of crappy excuse is that? Loser."

"Bitch."

They grinned at each other for a moment.

Sam said, "Dean, we actually got out."

"Yeah. Unbelievable."

"And it's been over three days now and the continent hasn't exploded," added Sam.

"Yay, Mr. Magma," Dean said. "We gotta visit those hot springs, soon, Sam."

"M&M's," said Sam, chuckling. "I'm gonna buy about a hundred bags of them and put them in every hot spring in the whole state."

They talked a bit more. It turned out Buddy had stopped in earlier in the morning to talk to Sam.

"First time I've actually been awake when he came by, I guess," said Sam. "Apparently he'd been sitting with you all night, but by dawn I guess watching you snore had got too boring, so he came over to me. I was still kinda loopy from the painkillers so he gave up trying to tell me anything important — said you'd fill me in. It was good to see him, though. Man, he's beat up." Sam gave a little laugh. "Dean, he's such a funny guy, he gave me this weird little pat on the head when he left. Kind of adorable actually."

Sam's smile faded. "Dean. I was looking at my list again. After he left." He pulled a very rumpled-looking pad of paper from under the covers of his bed. "It was still in my jacket pocket, after all that, can you believe it? Dean... I think I figured something else out."

Dean looked at him.

"I think we're the shitty friends," said Sam.

"What?"

"The shitty friends," said Sam, his head down, looking at his pad of paper. "We're the shitty friends. I can't believe we didn't put it together. He said he had a couple friends with an Impala that he took some trips with. Remember? Two friends in a '67 Impala? And he said he had a friend with a jacket like yours - remember? And then later he says, he had a couple of friends who didn't help? And you asked why the shitty friends hadn't helped him, and he said they'd forgotten about him."

"Oh my god," said Dean, putting his head down in his hands.

One more puzzle piece.

And... a moment later, yup, there came the headache. Manageable, this time. Dean thought, _Maybe it's only really bad if I actually remember something?_

"Sam," said Dean, lifting his head. "His goddam friggin' jacket." Dean held up the jacket. "It's _my jacket_. I just finally got a look at it. It's _mine_. The one I got from Dad, the one I thought I lost."

Sam sighed and put his head back on his pillow. "Shoulda guessed," he muttered.

They sat there a moment, listening to the murmuring of the nurses outside, the sounds of footsteps in the tiled hallways, the quiet beeping of Sam's monitors.

Sam said, "I feel like the world's biggest grade-A moron."

"Right there with you."

"So then," Sam said quietly, lifting his head and looking out the window. "I also developed a new theory. Wanna hear it?"

"Lay it on me," said Dean tiredly.

"All the memory crap, Dean. I think it's _all about him_. All the thousands and thousands of things we forgot. We've been thinking we forgot all kinds of different things, totally random different things over years, right? I don't think that's right. I think _all_ those memories had to do with _Buddy_. Getting out of Hell, going back in time, the angels that fell on my car, the deer in the road, what you were looking for in Purgatory... All of it."

Dean sat stunned.

_Buddy saying: We met... two or three times, perhaps... a few times... I don't recall exactly. _

Try hundreds. Thousands?

_Have you considered the possibility that what you forgot might not have been very important?_

_You chose to do this, Dean. You must have wanted to._

Dean began to feel sick.

Sam was saying, staring down at his little pad of paper, "I just feel certain about it. Especially since I got a goddam splitting headache over it, and that always means I'm on to something. Those were memories _of him_. Dammit. It's all coming together. He was _our friend_. He must have been our friend for the entire past five years. And somehow we just completely forgot him. We gotta go talk to him, Dean. Do you think he... did this somehow? I mean, he knows spells and stuff."

"He didn't do it," whispered Dean. "I asked. He says we did it ourselves."

Sam's head jerked up. "What?"

"He says we did it ourselves. We cast the spell on ourselves. He was certain. And... the way he said it, I believe him."

Sam stared at him. "Well, shit. I mean... _shit_."

"Yeah."

"We have to go talk to him immediately," said Sam. "Let's go talk to him soon as we get outta here. We've _got _to fix this, Dean. This is major."

"He's gone," said Dean.

"_What?"_

"He left us these," said Dean. He handed Sam his card, and opened his own.

It was an incredibly cheesy Hallmark card that must have been from the hospital gift shop, decorated with a godawful old-fashioned design of small rabbits carrying flowers and ribbons. Dean flipped it open. There was no note. Below the pre-printed "GET WELL SOON", Buddy had signed it just:

_Your friend_

Sam's card had tiny bluebirds instead of bunnies, and was signed the same.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

* * *

A day later Dean was strong enough to walk, and he checked out (ignoring Sarah's fierce protests and her final parting cry of "You are _exactly_ like your older brother!") The Impala was parked where Buddy had said, and was spotlessly clean. Dean drove straight past the motel, took a right at the rental-cabins sign and jostled his way up the unpaved road, all the way to the tiny cabin at the end.

He'd expected to find the cabin empty. But he did not expect to find it had burned to the ground. All the trees that had had angel wards had been burned down, and there was nothing left of the cabin but a smoking ruin.

He whipped the Impala around in a jerky turn, and raced it back down to the motel in a near-panic, his heart in his throat. He ran into the front office to ask what had happened.

The front-desk girl said, "Oh, jeez, you knew that guy? He was okay, he's okay! Don't panic."

Dean heaved a huge sigh of relief. "What happened? Where is he?"

"Poor guy. He lost absolutely everything. Not that he had that much, I guess, but still. Happened the day after that freaky landslide. We're just lucky the whole hill didn't go up. It was weird, though, everyone's assuming he just left the fire burning without a screen on it, but he swore up and down that he hadn't. He swore the fire was out before he left. And the firemen actually said it looked like it started at the trees, but that doesn't make any sense, does it?"

The angel-ward trees. _Ziphius._

The girl was saying, "Anyway he was off at the hospital or something for quite a few days, so he didn't even know it had happened, and he came back yesterday and found it like that. His cat died. He was so upset about the cat. He was, jeez — we had to make him sit down — he was just _shaking_ — he kept saying it was his fault, that he'd trapped her in there, that the cat trusted him, kept saying he'd let her down. He actually said he shouldn't be allowed to have friends anymore, can you imagine? Jeez. Never seen someone so destroyed over a cat. I offered him a free room, of course, I mean, who wouldn't? But he said he had to keep moving."

Dean was staring at her open-mouthed. "Where'd he go?" he said.

"Hitched a ride over the pass with the first truck that came through here. He had, like, nothing, not even a coat, but he just took off. I gave him forty bucks and he didn't even want to take it — I had to shove it in his pocket. First truck that came along, he flagged it down, and they went over the pass. Haven't seen him since."

Dean drove over the pass immediately. He spent the entire day on the mountain roads. He went clear over the pass to Idaho, and combed through the little mountain towns on the far side - Victor, Driggs, Ashton, St. Anthony. As soon as Sam could check out of the hospital, two days later, they drove over the pass again. They drove clear through Idaho; they went all the way up to Montana, and all the way down to Utah. They spent the next two weeks searching every town from Butte to Pocatello, but Buddy was gone.

* * *

_A/N -_

_I swear I am not intentionally trying to torture you all... it just keeps unfolding this way, somehow...sorry..._

_If you enjoyed or have comments, any comments at all, please review! Your reviews are the only feedback I get and it means a lot to hear from you. _

_Next chapter up this weekend._

_PS - I had already written the bit about pieces of grace being left behind BEFORE that last episode. weird._


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